


Season 6

by x_r



Series: Season 6 [1]
Category: Arrested Development
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, afaik nothing happens that directly contradicts canon, at least i think it's canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-04-24 08:22:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19169431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_r/pseuds/x_r
Summary: “Anyway, Michael, the reason I’m calling you-”That’s when Michael finally finds the words to respond. “Let me get this straight. You weren’t calling to tell me Dad is dead?”“Well, that’s part of it, obviously. But the real reason is the money. Your father had a $200 million life insurance policy. We’re rich again, Michael!”





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> ok so i just want to say that i have literally NEVER written any type of fan fiction before in my life and i'm still not entirely sure what possessed me to write this. literally i made an account on here just for this. i got this idea like right after 5b aired but i didn't start actually writing it until early may & i'm not totally 100% satisfied with how it turned out but i'd rather post it on here for anyone who might want to see it than have 33k words of this shit just sitting on my computer.
> 
> anyway the premise is that george sr dies & michael returns to newport beach for the funeral. i tried to keep it as close to the tone of the show as possible so that reading it feels like watching an episode but i'm not sure if i succeeded. i don't know how ratings work but this is probably either teen+ or mature. that's pretty much it. enjoy!

“You know what the problem with Phoenix is?” Michael asks, briefly taking his eyes off the road to glance at his son. He doesn’t wait for a response before he continues. “It’s still way too close to the family. There’s barely even 375 miles between us and Newport Beach right now. Did you know that?”

 

George Michael nods, only halfway paying attention. He does know that, because his father has asked him the same question no fewer than twelve times in the past half-hour. Not that he’s been counting, of course. He has plenty of other things to keep his mind occupied, like the desert that surrounds US I-10 and the unsettling realization that all the work he’s done on FakeBlock – the real woodblock app, not the fake security software – has ultimately been for nothing. Even if he could go back and finish it, the Chinese own all the rights. If there’s a market for an app that turns your smartphone into a woodblock – and he’s sure there is; there has to be, right? – he’s got no chance of tapping into it(pun not intended) now. And to think, this all started because he’d told a tiny little white lie to impress his cousin – his _biological_ cousin, it turns out, because apparently Aunt Lindsay is actually his _biological_ great-aunt. He’d been more than a little horrified when Michael had informed him of that, especially considering how only seconds before he’d had his tongue deep inside the aforementioned cousin’s mouth. So when Michael had followed up that bombshell with the typical, “Come on, get your stuff. We’re going to Phoenix,” George Michael hadn’t hesitated. Anything to take his mind off of … all of that.

 

Okay, so maybe he has been counting. And now he’s watching the odometer tick away another mile and waiting to hear his father repeat the same question yet again. Head still facing forward, he shifts his eyes to Michael in anticipation. Michael’s mouth begins to open, but before he can even start to form the words he’s interrupted by his ringing cell phone.

 

“God damn it!” Michael half-yells, not even bothering to check the caller ID.

 

“Are you gonna answer that?” George Michael asks, even though he already knows the answer.

 

“It’s probably your grandmother, so no, son, I’m not. I think I made it _very clear_ last time that the two of us are out of this family for good.” He pulls the phone out of his pocket and makes a huge show of declining the call before setting it down on the center console.

 

“There, much better.”

 

George Michael says nothing and goes back to staring out the window at the desert shrubbery rushing by. The phone has barely left Michael’s hand when the ringing starts back up.

 

“Son of a bitch!” he shouts, declining the call once again. It’s definitely his mother this time; the words “Gangie From The Monster Movies” scroll across the screen before he manages to shut it off.

 

“Maybe you should see what she wa-” George Michael’s sentence is cut short by the sound of Michael’s ringtone. It’s the default one; he never bothered to change it. Never saw the point. And – George Michael suspects – never figured out how.

 

“No!” Michael yells, wagging his index finger at his son like he’s done something wrong. “ _No_. Just no. Not again. Not this time. You know what? Just let it ring. She’ll give up soon enough.”

 

Michael doesn’t fully believe that last part, and he can tell his son doesn’t either. But neither one of them says anything, and the phone continues to ring.

 

-

 

They’d already been through this whole ordeal once before, of course, back when they first tried to leave(this time, anyway), back on the day of the wall unveiling. Lucille had not given up then either, and Michael had finally answered the phone, begrudgingly, as the rear wheels of the stair car rolled over the Arizona border. He’d been all prepared with an, “I’m in Arizona, Mother. I can’t help you now,” but, as it turned out, there are some things in this world just too big to be confined by state lines. Murder is one of those things, and apparently Buster had just confessed to it. Michael had sighed repeatedly as he turned around and headed back into California, his mother still screaming on the other end about an “emergency family meeting” at the penthouse that he “had to be there for.”

 

That day was already over by the time they returned to Newport Beach. It was before midnight still, but the light was long gone. Michael had parked the stair car outside his mother’s apartment building and, George Michael right behind him, made his way up to the penthouse. He’d reached for the doorknob, expecting to find the entire family waiting for them on the other side, but that image quickly dissipated as the door swung open to reveal only two people. The first was his mother, perched in a chair, wine glass in hand and fur draped around her shoulders, who greeted him with a, “Where the hell have you been, Michael? We’ve been waiting for _hours_.”

 

The second was Barry Zuckerkorn, who looked from Michael to George Michael and then back again and muttered, “Oh, I can’t be here,” before throwing himself off the couch and shoving his way between them, slamming the apartment door behind him as he took off. Michael stared at the closed door in mild disbelief for a few seconds before turning to his mother, eyebrows raised and mouth hanging slightly open.

 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Lucille snapped, rolling her eyes as she sipped from her glass.

 

“Thought you said this was a _family_ meeting,” Michael replied, emphasizing the second-to-last word perhaps a little too much.

 

His mother sighed. “It _is_ , Michael.”

 

“I’m not seeing a whole lot of family.”

 

“Look closer.”

 

Michael squinted and tilted his head just to humor her. “Still not seeing a-”

 

“Hey, brother.” Buster stepped out from behind the curtain and waved with his stump of a left hand. It would seem Lucille had made him get rid of the foot. Admittedly, that hadn’t been a great look, but this one was far from better.

 

Michael flinched, but quickly regained his composure. “Hey buddy. Can I ask you something? What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

 

Buster started to reply, but was interrupted by the fireplace clearing its throat. Or, rather, the man crouched down inside the fireplace.

 

“Is _no one_ going to say hello to me?” Tobias questioned, clearly offended. Everyone looked at him. He was wearing nothing but cut-offs and covered in soot. Michael looked at his mother.

 

“What?” she shrugged, clearly unphased. “He’s less annoying in there.”

 

For a few seconds there was silence. George Michael was the one who broke it. “Uh, hello, Uncle Tobias.”

 

“And hello to you too, young George Mich- OW!!!” Trying to stand up while still inside the fireplace had been, as some would say, a huge mistake. Tobias placed a soot-covered hand to his soot-covered head. “Jesus C. Penny, that hurt like _balls_! Oh dear, is that blood?”

 

“Ignore him,” Lucille said to Michael as Tobias continued to writhe about in pain. “He’s fine.”

 

He clearly wasn’t, but no one cared enough to do anything about it.

 

“Mother, where is everyone?” Michael asked, quickly losing what little patience he had left.

 

“What do you mean? Everyone who matters is here.” She shot a glance at Tobias. “And so is the anus tart.”

 

“None taken!” Tobias exclaimed as he fell out of the fireplace, bleeding profusely.

 

Michael obviously wasn’t satisfied with that explanation, so Lucille continued. “Your father and your uncle are out on an excursion. I didn’t care to learn any more than that. Lindsay and Maeby went to a spa. Some nonsense about ‘making up for lost mother-daughter time’ or such and such of the sort. Completely asinine, if you ask me. And _Gob_ wasn’t invited, because this entire thing is his fault. If it weren’t for his _idiot_ magic show-”

 

Michael had several questions. First off, since when did his father and his uncle willingly spend time together? Second, since when had Lindsay come back? Third, how was it Gob’s fault that Lucille Austero was dead? Normally Michael was all for blaming everything on Gob, but this one seemed to be all Buster. All of that aside, what the fuck was _Barry_ doing there? The guy wasn’t even a lawyer anymore! Lastly, and by far most importantly, why the hell should he care about any of it? He was out of the family. But before he could even begin to articulate his feelings, his brother spoke up.

 

“No, Mother, the magic show was good. It was the part _after_ the magic show that-”

 

“Good _god_ , _Buster_ , would you let me finish?” She slammed her now-empty wine glass down on the endtable so hard Michael was surprised it didn’t break.

 

“ _Careful_ , Mother. You wouldn’t want to end up like your good friend Lucille _Austero_ , now _would_ you?” Buster let out a high pitched giggle as he finished the sentence, twirling around as he tiptoed closer. Lucille only rolled her eyes as she gestured towards him.

 

“You see what I’ve been having to deal with all day, Michael? This ungrateful little son of a-”

 

“As much as I’d love to hear you finish that sentence, Mom, I really don’t have time for this. What exactly do you need me for? You had me drive all the way from Arizona for what, a typical Tuesday?”

 

“Today isn’t Tuesday.”

 

“Just answer the question.”

 

“I need you to get him out of here.”

 

Buster’s maniacal smile, which had made him look more than a little possessed, fell from his face. Now he more closely resembled a dog that had just been kicked. “I thought I was staying here with you.”

 

“You can’t stay here, you _imbecile_! You have a _warrant_ for your _arrest_! I can’t risk harboring a _fugitive_!”

 

“So you _lied_ to me?”

 

“I had to tell you _something_ to keep you from running off before Michael got here!”

 

“Oh, to keep me from running away? I thought you _wanted_ me gone! Do you love me or not, _Mother_? Because I’ll have you know I did this for _you_!”

 

Buster was directly in front of Lucille now, eyes focused on his mother like laser beams. Lucille remained calmly seated in her chair, unintimidated by the display. “Would you fetch me some more wine, Buster? It seems my glass is empty.”

 

“Of course, Mother.” Buster was happy to oblige. He was all the way in the kitchen before he remembered that they were in the middle of a fight. “Maybe I’ll add a little _SOMETHING SPECIAL_ just for you!” he shouted defiantly.

 

Lucille rolled her eyes. Buster opened the partition over the counter and poked his head through. “I meant poison, by the way. Was that obvious enough?”

 

Tobias coughed something that sounded suspiciously like “try-hard” as he hoisted himself off the floor and into a chair. Lucille gasped in horror. “What are you _doing_? You’re covered in ash and blood! You’re ruining my furniture! Get _down_!”

 

“Um, _objection_! Mayhaps I am merely _enhancing_ your furniture’s natural beauty. Ever think about _that_?” The confident pose Tobias attempted to strike instead caused him to topple out of the chair. Lucille facepalmed dramatically.

 

“Um, hang on,” Michael said suddenly, shifting everyone’s focus to himself. “Did you say Buster has a _warrant for his arrest_?”

 

“He killed someone, Michael. Of course he does.” Michael shouldn’t have been surprised by how casually his mother spoke those words. Nonetheless, he found himself staring incredulously as she accepted her refilled wine glass from Buster.

 

“Okay, then why is he _here_? Why isn’t he in prison?”

 

“Same reason you’re here. I need you to get him out of here before all his _yammering_ attracts the cops.”

 

“If I leave here with him, I’m taking him directly _to_ the cops. You realize that, right?”

 

“Better there than here.” Lucille waved her hand dismissively as she sipped her wine.

 

Buster gasped and clamped his good hand to his mouth. “Well at least _someone_ wants me!”

 

“For _first degree murder_ , you waste of eleven months in the womb!” Lucille followed him with her eyes, shooting daggers as he made his way to the door.

 

“Silence, _mother_!”

 

“Uh, hey Uncle Buster,” George Michael said awkwardly to the man who was now standing uncomfortably close to him. It was only the second thing he’d said all night.

 

“Hey, nephew! High five?” Buster, of course, held up his left arm.

 

“Uh, no thank you. Very nice of you to offer though.” He shuddered as he looked at the stump. Fortunately, Buster didn’t seem to notice. His attention was already elsewhere.

 

“Okay, Michael, let’s go. I’m ready to be _locked up_!” This, of course, was followed by hysterical giggling.

 

“Glad to hear it, pal.” Michael patted his brother on the back as he opened the door. He regretted his next words even before he said them. “Tobias, do you need a ride to the hospital?”

 

“How kind of you to offer, Michael!” For a second Michael interpreted this as a declination, but his hopes were dashed as his brother-in-law launched himself through the open door and took off running down the hallway. “I call shotgun!” he shouted as he tumbled into the stairwell. “Whoopsie, almost fell down the stairs! Clumsy me!”

 

Buster made a face at that. Michael quickly ushered him, along with George Michael, out of the apartment. He did, however, step back inside for a brief moment before joining them.

 

“Okay, Mom, we’re leaving now, for the last time _ever_ -”

 

“Never heard that one before.”

 

Michael decided he would one-up her by slamming the door in her face. Unfortunately, however, seeing as Lucille was still seated in the living room, it didn’t have quite the intended effect. Michael wound up spending the entirety of the awkwardly silent elevator ride down to the lobby agonizing over this poorly-thought-out decision, in addition to the few minutes after that while he, his brother, and his son waited for Tobias to make it down all those flights of stairs.

 

The night had been a total bust so far, and it wasn’t about to get better. George Michael, not wanting to be squeezed in with his uncles, had opted to ride on the stair portion of the stair car. Michael had dropped off Tobias at the hospital first, just to get him to shut up about whatever the hell he was saying, then Buster at the police station. He watched his younger brother be put in handcuffs and led away, Buster giggling and smiling throughout the entire process, then turned to his son, who had just entered the vehicle through the passenger side door.

 

“Dad, I-”

 

Whatever it was his son had to say, this was much more important. “Listen, George Michael, they have put us through this bullshit for the last time. We’re _done_ with it. We’re _through_. This is _it_. I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do now, okay? We’re gonna go to your place in Sudden Valley, spend the night there. In the morning I’ll go swap this crime scene on wheels with your Pop-Pop’s Winnebago, you can wash all that orange crap out of your hair, and then you and me are gonna hit the road. Phoenix, Arizona! Just the two of us, just like we’ve always wanted. How’s that sound?”

 

“Sounds good.” It didn’t, really, but it was better than staying here. If there was any hesitation in his voice, Michael didn’t notice it.

 

And that plan, unlike many, had gone off without a hitch. Michael found his father surprisingly willing to trade vehicles, and George Michael found his hair dye surprisingly easy to wash out. Everything was all packed up and ready to go when Michael, who may not have been paying complete attention to everything his mother had said the night before, happened to see his older brother outside the model home and decided on a whim to confront him. He was out of the RV and in the road before his son could even ask what was going on.

 

“Gob!” Michael shouted, starting up the driveway.

 

His brother turned around upon hearing his name. “Michael.”

 

“Where the hell were you last night?”

 

For a second Gob looked confused, then embarrassed. Michael watched him cycle through several emotions before seemingly settling on smug confidence. Suddenly Michael regretted the question.

 

“Thanks for asking, Mike. I had a _wonderful_ time last night, if you know what I mean.”

 

Michael certainly had an _idea_ of what that might mean, given recent events and his brother’s choice of wording(not to mention the way he was walking), but for once in his life he didn’t want to be right. “I can’t say that I do, Gob,” he replied, feigning ignorance.

 

“Well, I’ll tell you what it means.” He put his arm around Michael’s shoulder.

 

“Please don’t.”

 

Gob ignored him. “I fucked Tony Wonder,” he said, grinning. He held up his other hand for a high five.

 

Michael cringed and did not reciprocate. This was exactly what he’d been hoping not to hear. “God damn it, Gob-”

 

“Or I guess, _technically_ , he fucked me, because he was the guy who-”

 

“Gob! I don’t want to hear it!” He had already heard way too much. This was probably going to give him nightmares for weeks. The expression on Gob’s face kind of looked like maybe he realized he’d said way too much, and Michael frantically searched for something else to say before Gob tried to roofie him again, or, even worse, went on one of his stuttering rants.

 

Gob, however, beat him to the punch. He removed his arm from Michael’s shoulder and folded it over the other across his chest. “Wow, _Michael_. Don’t be such a homophobe.”

 

“I’m not homophobic, Gob.”

 

“Sure sounds like you are.”

 

“Just because I don’t want to hear about my brother’s sex life doesn’t mean – okay, you know what, forget I even said anything. So you are gay, then?”

 

He was expecting Gob to deny it again, but instead he just nodded, apparently tired of running from the truth.

 

“I knew it! I _always_ knew it!”

 

Gob looked like he was about to punch him in the face. Michael decided to quickly change the subject.

 

“I meant why weren’t you at the family meeting last night.” Of course, Michael remembered why as soon as he said it, but it was too late.

 

“What family meeting?”

 

“Nevermind. Ask Mom. And by the way, I am _out of this family_! For real this time! Tell them all I said that!” He had jogged all the way back to the Winnebago by this point, and any response Gob had was drowned out by the engine. Michael watched his brother get smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror as he drove away, still yelling something that he would never hear. He cranked up the volume on the radio and turned to his son, a wide smile plastered across his face.

 

“Say hello to freedom, George Michael. Phoenix here we come!”

 

-

 

The phone is still ringing, like it has been for the past half-hour. Phoenix hadn’t worked out, of course. They’d been there for months(they’d lost track of how many) and it had only gotten progressively worse. Michael is gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles have gone completely white.

 

“Dad-” George Michael starts to say.

 

“I said I’m not answering it!”

 

“Okay, sorry.” George Michael looks out the window again, trying to tune out the ringing. If this goes on much longer he’s gonna lose his mind. His father clearly lost his some time ago. Why not just turn off the phone? It’s almost like he _want_ _s_ to hear it ring. In fact, George Michael is pretty sure he _does_ , not that his father would ever admit it. The same way he’ll never admit that, deep down, he wants to go back home. Michael feels _needed_ there, he knows, and he misses the feeling of being needed. He also misses the notoriety that came with the Bluth name. In Phoenix he’s just some random guy who no one cares about. That feeling had only intensified with each week spent away, and it was obvious Michael hated it.

 

George Michael is about to open his mouth again when he hears an unfamiliar sound: silence. The phone has unexpectedly cut off mid-ring.

 

“Huh,” Michael says. “Looks like it finally ran out of juice.”

 

George Michael doesn’t have a chance to respond before his own phone starts ringing. Without thinking(that’s his excuse, anyway), he accepts the call. Next to him, Michael is fuming silently and shaking his head.

 

“Hi, Gangie-”

 

She cuts him off before he can say anything else. “I need to speak to your father.”

 

“She wants to talk to you,” he says to Michael.

 

“Son of a bitch,” Michael replies. Still, he takes the phone almost happily, clearly giddy to tell his mother off.

 

“What is it, Mother? Is it Buster? Did he break out of jail? Did he kill somebody else? Or, let me guess, Gob lit Ron Howard on fire? Lindsay and Tobias getting divorced again? You need money for a new wardrobe? You’re gonna have to find somebody else to handle it, Mother, because I am _DONE_ -”

 

“No, Michael, it’s your father.”

 

“What, did he finally manage to kill himself for real this time?” Michael can’t stop the sarcasm from dripping out in his voice.

 

“Actually, Michael, it was natural causes.”

 

That wasn’t what he was expecting. He abruptly pulls off the road, causing George Michael to yelp in surprise. A semi driver behind them lays on the horn. Michael ignores it. Right now his whole world is confined to the interior of the Winnebago and the other end of the conversation.

 

“What did you say?”

 

“I said your father died of natural causes.” She sounds almost bored, like she’s repeating the weather forecast.

 

“Dad’s _dead_?”

 

“Don’t act so surprised, Michael. Just a second ago you guessed it yourself.” Lucille’s voice is the one dripping with sarcasm now.

 

“Okay, _ha ha_. What happened? Stroke? Heart attack? Aneurysm?” Michael runs through the list mentally, trying to figure out which is the most likely culprit.

 

“He was out hiking with your uncle and he fell off a cliff.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“Has that Arizona _dry heat_ had its way with your brain? I _said_ he was out hiking with your uncle and he fell off a cliff.”

 

“No, Mom, I got that part. How is that ‘natural causes’?”

 

“Well, it was caused by nature, wasn’t it?”

 

Michael can’t argue with that. Can’t really form any words, in fact. His head is spinning at a million miles a minute. Lucille takes his silence as an invitation to continue.

 

“Your uncle’s dead too, by the way. He jumped after your father like an absolute moron. Claimed it was because there was only one cell phone and it was in your father’s pocket, and how else was he supposed to call 911? He lived long enough to make the phone call and then he croaked as well. Can you _believe_ it? What a couple of clowns. By the time the paramedics got there they’d been swept out to sea. Nothing left but the blood spatter. Absolutely _disgusting_ , this display of buffoonery-”

 

Michael’s just staring at the phone now as his mother’s voice drones on. George Michael is staring too. His grandmother is loud enough that he’s heard both sides of the conversation. She’s still perfectly audible even though the phone’s not on speaker.

 

“Anyway, Michael, the reason I’m calling you-”

 

That’s when Michael finally finds the words to respond. “Let me get this straight. You _weren’t_ calling to tell me Dad is dead?”

 

“Well, that’s part of it, obviously. But the real reason is the money. Your father had a $200 million life insurance policy. We’re rich again, Michael!”

 

Michael doesn’t speak for several minutes. He can hear the excitement in his mother’s voice. She’s shrieking like she just saw Gene Parmesan – for all he knows, maybe she did. He’s missing _everything_ these days. 375 miles away and still heading in the opposite direction; what is he _thinking_? _Anything_ could be happening right now and he’d have no idea. His father is _dead_ , for Christ’s sake! How is he-

 

Lucille’s voice interrupts his train of thought. “Hello, Michael? Are you still there?”

 

“Uh, yeah, Mom. I’m still here.”

 

“Good. See you tonight!”

 

She hangs up without giving him a chance to respond to that. Michael stares at the phone, blinks a few times, then hands it back to his son. George Michael accepts it wordlessly, not wanting to be the first one to speak.

 

“Well, it looks like we’re going back,” Michael says finally, returning his hands to the wheel. He turns the camper around and starts the long drive back to Newport Beach.

 


	2. The Beginning

This time, it is after midnight by the time Michael makes it up to his mother’s penthouse. He decides to knock, just to be polite, and definitely not because he already tried to open it once and found it locked. He can hear voices coming from inside, and music. It sounds like they’re having a party. He says as much to his son, who nods in confused agreement.

 

“Michael!” His mother sounds _happy_ when she opens the door. She pulls him and George Michael into a hug, which is fortunately very brief. George Michael is pretty sure he can count the number of times he’s been hugged by his grandmother on one hand.

 

“Already spending that insurance money, huh?” Michael asks, rhetorically, as she leads them into the apartment. The fur coat she’s wearing is one he hasn’t seen before, and behind her in the dining room there’s a very impressive spread of food and alcohol.

 

“Only a little, Michael. I believe in times like these it’s okay to indulge just a _teeny tiny_ bit.”

 

“Times like what, your husband dying?” He hopes that came out as bitter as he intended it to.

 

“He died for a good cause, Michael,” Lucille insists, brushing him off. “We’re rich again!”

 

“Yeah, well, enjoy it while it lasts. At this rate, it won’t be for very long.” There’s enough food here to feed fifty people, at least. And are those new curtains?

 

“Says the man who spent _millions_ on his son’s _worthless_ company.”

 

That’s going a bit too far for Michael’s liking, and he immediately retaliates. “Mom, did you kill him?” he asks point-blank. He doubts even _she_ would stoop _that_ low, but the question had been bothering him for most of the drive and he wants to hit her where it hurts.

 

Lucille gasps and clutches her hands to her chest in feigned horror. “Michael, why would you even _suggest_ such a thing?”

 

Michael raises his eyebrows, conveying without words that he’s not falling for it.

 

Lucille, rolling her eyes, drops the charade. “Of course I didn’t, Michael. Do you think I’m _stupid_? And besides, I have an alibi. I was at the club all day the day it happened. There’s security footage of me eating lunch there at the exact time of Oscar’s 911 call. Would you like to see it? I can call them up and have them send it over.”

 

“No, Mom, I believe you,” Michael says, sighing. He hates that he actually does. But it makes sense. If George Sr had been pushed, the 911 call probably would have mentioned that.

 

“Do I hear Michael? Is Michael here? I knew it! Michael _always_ comes back!” That’s Buster’s voice. Michael looks around, confused. Isn’t Buster in jail? He sees Tobias sitting at the piano, playing what sounds like a very out-of-tune rendition of Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree. It’s not December, or even close. Lindsay is out on the balcony talking on her phone. Michael can’t be sure, but it sounds like she’s flirting. Maeby is sprawled out on the couch, flicking candy beans at the back of her father’s head. Her aim is almost perfect, but Tobias still fails to notice. Gob is in the kitchen. Michael can’t quite tell what he’s doing, but he also doesn’t care. Suddenly something crashes into his abdomen.

 

“What the-”

 

“Hey, brother.” It’s Buster’s voice again. Michael looks down to find what appears to be an iPad duct-taped to what appears to be a broomstick duct-taped to what appears to be a Roomba. His younger brother’s face is on the screen, apparently live-streaming from prison.

 

“Isn’t this neat?” Buster asks, spinning around. “Mother set it up for me.”

 

“Uh-huh.” Michael isn’t sure what else to say. He glances over at Lucille, who shrugs and does that winking thing he hates so much. “Guess she did spare some expenses then, huh?”

 

Buster looks confused. “What do you mean?”

 

“Nevermind. How’s prison life treating you?”

 

“It’s _prison_ , Michael. I’ve already been here once before. Things aren’t that much different now, except that everybody knows I’m-” his eyes dart around the room and he cups his hand to his mouth like he’s about to reveal some huge secret “-a _murderer_!” He giggles. “That sounds so _funny_ to say out loud!”

 

“You been drinking juice, buddy?” Michael asks, mildly concerned.

 

“No, just eating ice cream sandwiches. They _love_ those in here for some reason!”

 

Michael nods, his mind going back to prison visits years earlier when his father was first arrested. His father, who is now dead, and nobody seems to care. Michael doesn’t really care that much either, to be honest, but he’s certainly offended that the rest of his family feels the same way. _They_ are supposed to care. He isn’t. He decides to do something about it.

 

He clears his throat very loudly. When no one pays him any attention, he does it again.

 

“Oh, just spit it out already!” Lucille insists, annoyed, as Michael prepares to clear his throat for the third time. The outburst catches everyone’s attention. Lindsay steps back inside from the balcony. Tobias stops playing mid-incorrect-key. Maeby freezes, a candy bean balanced precariously between her thumb and middle finger. Gob pokes his head out of the kitchen. They’re all looking at Michael, clearly expecting something. Michael rolls his eyes.

 

Everyone starts talking at once.

 

“Do my balls deceive me? Is that Michael Bluth?” This was Tobias.

 

“Wow, Michael. Even _I_ was gone longer than that. What happened to ‘I’m out of this family?’” This was Lindsay, and, no, she actually wasn’t.

 

“Typical _Michael_.” This was Gob.

 

“Hey guys.” This one was George Michael, who’s still standing awkwardly by his father’s side.

 

“Hey, George Michael,” Maeby replies, flicking the candy bean in his direction.

 

“Heeey nephew!” The candy bean hits the back of the iPad, which sends Buster’s communication device careening towards George Michael. He jumps out of the way just in time, which causes it to crash into the sidetable instead, knocking a framed picture to the floor and sending shards of glass flying everywhere.

 

“ _Buster_!” Lucille shouts.

 

“I didn’t mean to, _Mother_!”

 

“I should hurl you over the side of the balcony!”

 

“ _I_ should push _you_ down the stairs!”

 

“You _wouldn’t_!”

 

“Would _too_!”

 

The scene is quickly devolving into chaos. “Okay, let’s lighten the mood a little,” Michael says, trying to separate his mother and the iPad-broomstick-Roomba before either one of them makes good on their threats.

 

“ _Light_ en the mood, huh?” Gob says, squirting lighter fluid out of his sleeve.

 

“Is it raining in here?” asks Tobias.

 

“Oh, I get it, because lighter fluid has ‘light’ in it,” says George Michael.

 

“No, I was trying to do a fireball. That should have worked. I just put a new flint in this thing.” Gob starts fiddling with his sleeve, trying to figure out what went wrong. He decides to try again. “And let there be-”

 

“FIRE!” Tobias screams, jumping up from his seat. “Dear lord, I’m on fire!”

 

“No, I was gonna say light. Fire has light, doesn’t it?”

 

“Somebody help me!”

 

“Sorry, I need to take this phone call.” Lindsay steps back out onto the balcony, phone pressed to her ear. “Yeah, no, sorry, my husband’s on fire.”

 

Tobias drops to the ground and starts rolling around in an attempt to put out the flames.

 

“Not my floors!” Lucille shrieks, then turns to Gob. “What have you done, you knucklehead?”

 

“How is this _my_ fault?”

 

“You _lit_ him on _fire_!”

 

“Not on _purpose_ , Mom!”

 

“Maeby, get the fire extinguisher!”

 

“Why me?”

 

“Well somebody has to!”

 

“What’s going on? I can’t see!” Buster’s iPad is face down on the ground. George Michael reaches for the broomstick handle and sets it upright again, and he joins the rest of the Bluths in observing the spectacle with mild amusement.

 

“Everybody stay calm. I’ll be right back!”

 

“Wow, _Michael_ , abandoning the family in our time of need? That’s not like you at all!”

 

“Gob, would you shut up? I’m just getting the fire extinguisher since _clearly_ no one else is going to!” He’s back in the room now, fire extinguisher cradled in his arms like a newborn baby. Gob rolls his eyes.

 

“Wait, I wanna do it,” Maeby says. Michael hands her the fire extinguisher and she promptly uses it to whack her father on the head. Her cousin, her grandmother, and one of her uncles frown at her. Her other two uncles find it funny. Her mother peeks back in and gives her a thumbs up.

 

“You’re doing amazing, sweetie!” Lindsay calls out.

 

“Maeby!” Michael shouts.

 

“Oh, fine,” Maeby says, rolling her eyes as she extinguishes her father.

 

“Watch the furniture!” her grandmother chides.

 

“I think you’re smothering me,” Tobias groans as the foam closes in on him.

 

-

 

An hour later, the Bluths are sitting in the ER waiting room. “Well, he’s fine. You can go back and see him if you like,” the doctor says briskly as she walks past. She doesn’t seem to have found the experience of having a man come in at 2am after being set on fire nearly as exciting as she should have found it. It must be because the flames were already out by the time he walked in. Or maybe it’s because he was able to walk in.

 

“Next time we should just leave him on fire,” Gob says as they walk(except for Buster, who’s rolling) down the hallway. Michael glares at him.

 

“There isn’t going to _be_ a next time, because-”

 

“Because you’re out of the family, for _good_ this time, blah blah blah blah _blah_. We get it, _Michael_.”

 

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

 

“Oh? Then what _were_ you going to say?” Tobias is sitting up in his hospital bed, legs dangling over the edge. He’s covered in gauze and wearing a gown over his cutoffs, but other than that he looks the same as always. _The burns probably weren’t even first degree_ , Gob decides.

 

“I was just going to say-” Everyone is looking at him expectantly again. Michael, frowning, decides to use this opportunity to discuss what’s really on his mind. “Don’t you all think there’s _something_ that we need to talk about here? The elephant in the room, perhaps?”

 

“I think that’s an MRI machine.”

 

“It’s not, Gob. It’s an IV drip. And that’s not what I meant.” Michael pauses for a moment. He has to. The fact that his brother would both mistake an IV drip for an MRI machine _and_ assume that was what he was referring to when he used the expression “elephant in the room” is a lot to take in. He shakes his head. It doesn’t matter. “Regardless-”

 

“Get to the point already, Michael,” his mother interrupts. She’s re-applying her lipstick and gazing into a handheld mirror. “All this talk and you haven’t _said_ anything.”

 

“Okay, so _nobody else_ thinks we need to talk about the fact that Dad is dead?”

 

Buster gasps. “Dad is _dead_?”

 

Michael looks at the iPad with both something resembling pity and a sense of deja vu.

 

“Just kidding! I knew that. Boy, I sure got you, _Michael_.” He’s laughing now, clearly pleased with himself.

 

“Okay, okay, whatever. _Nobody_ thinks we need to talk about it?”

 

“What is there to talk about, Michael? He’s dead.” Lindsay shrugs nonchalantly.

 

“You were pretty torn up last time this happened-” Michael stops himself as it fully hits him that this has, in fact, happened before.

 

“Exactly! _Last time_. I already processed all my grief years ago when he faked his death. Plus, this time I know he’s not even my real dad.” Lindsay turns to look at the charts on the wall, clearly not interested in continuing the conversation.

 

“I bet he’s faking it this time too,” Gob adds, hands on his hips.

 

“No,” says Michael. “He’s dead. You’re just all in denial.”

 

“They never found his body,” Gob points out.

 

“Yeah, but they found blood, Gob. Lots of blood. You can’t fake blood.”

 

Gob scoffs at this. “Yes you can.” His own brother is an illusionist; how does he not know that? Gob’s starting to get a little offended.

 

“They DNA tested it, you nitwit. It belonged to your father. Or perhaps your uncle. They’re identical twins; they have the same DNA.” Lucille is filing her nails now. She doesn’t look up when she speaks.

 

“Had,” Michael corrects. “They _had_ the same DNA.”

 

“DNA doesn’t change when you die, Uncle Michael.” Great, now he’s being outsmarted by his own niece.

 

“She has a point, Dad.”

 

“I _know_ she has a point, George Michael. That’s why I didn’t argue with her.”

 

“Wow, _awkward_ ,” Buster says. Michael is pretty sure he can hear a prison fight going on in the background. This is confirmed when his brother leans away from the camera and yells, “Could you guys keep it down? I’m in the middle of something over here!”

 

The other prisoners ignore him. Buster turns back to the camera, rolling his eyes. “Rude much?”

 

The whole family is staring at the screen now. “Oh, ignore me,” Buster says, waving his good hand in front of his face. “Please, Michael, continue.”

 

“Thanks, Buster.” Michael can’t believe the only member of his family who respects him is the one in prison for murder. Or maybe he can. It seems about par for the course. “As I was saying-”

 

It’s Tobias who interrupts him this time. “Michael, if I may-”

 

“Interrupt me in the middle of my sentence? Sure, go ahead.”

 

“My pleasure. Now, if I may, I’d like to remove my burn victim gown-”

 

“Kind of feel like you should keep that on.”

 

“I was speaking _metaphorically_ , Michael – and put on my theralyst pantsuit -”

 

Lucille groans, loudly, rolling her eyes. Tobias ignores her. “I believe that _Michael_ is the one who needs to talk about George Sr’s unfortunate pegging out.”

 

“His _what_?” Michael asks, confused.

 

“You know, the biting of the dust? The going down on the grim reaper? The entering into the flesh of the earth?”

 

“The _what_?” Michael asks again, no less confused.

 

“That he _died_ , Michael!” Tobias finally says, frustrated that no one understood any of his euphemisms.

 

“What? No, I _don’t_!”

 

“I agree with my husband, Michael.” Lindsay sits down beside Tobias on the hospital bed. She considers wrapping an arm around him to appear more supportive, but decides against it. She really doesn’t want to have to touch him right now.

 

“Of course _you_ do,” Michael says.

 

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” Lindsay says back, her eyes narrowing.

 

“I think you know good and well what that means, Lindsay.”

 

“Well, _I_ think I don’t, and I’d very much like for you to explain it to me.”

 

“I, too, would like to know.” Tobias joins his wife in gazing intently at Michael. Michael turns around to see the rest of the family staring at him as well.

 

“Well?” Lucille asks. Michael thinks for a second, trying to decide if this is really the best time to air all of his frustrations with his family. His father just died, all anyone seems to care about is the insurance money, and now his brother-in-law is in the hospital because his brother accidentally set him on fire. He decides it really is the best time.

 

“Okay, fine. You want to get into it? Let’s really get into it. I’m gonna give it to you, and I’m gonna give it to you hard, and you’re just gonna have to sit there and take it.”

 

“Interesting choice of phrasing, Michael.” Why is _Tobias_ of all people pointing that out to him?

 

“You know what-”

 

“I’m gonna get some popcorn. Don’t start without me.” Maeby darts out of the room and down the hall to the vending machines, fully prepared to buy all the popcorn they have in stock. Michael doesn’t listen to her, but as it turns out, that doesn’t matter. She can still hear him just fine from where she is.

 

Apparently so can the same doctor from earlier. She re-enters the room at the same time Maeby does, and she looks even more tired now than she did ten minutes ago, which, at that point in time, anyone would have thought to be impossible. “I’m gonna have to ask you to keep it down, folks.”

 

“What’s wrong, can’t handle the truth?” Apparently Michael Bluth has finally lost his mind. Maeby rips open the first popcorn bag and shoves a handful into her mouth.

 

“Sir, this is a hospital, and it’s a quarter til three in the morning. You’re disturbing the other patients. Don’t make me call security.” She leaves without another word. Michael at least has the decency to look ashamed of himself.

 

“Let’s take this somewhere a little more private,” he says, volume significantly lower than before.

 

“Too ashamed to air your dirty laundry out in the open?”

 

“Mother, _please_ -”

 

“There’s a minibar in the Winnebago,” George Michael says, attempting to be helpful. Everyone’s ears perk up. Tobias yanks the IV out of his arm.

 

“I call shotgun!” he shouts.

 

“We’re not driving anywhere,” Michael tries to say, but his brother-in-law is already out of the room and down the hall. The rest of the family follows, setting off multiple alarms as they leave through the emergency exit. Security doesn’t bother going after them. They, much like the rest of the hospital personnel, are willing to take any escape from the Bluths they can get.

 

-

 

“I believe you owe me an apology, Michael,” Tobias says around twenty minutes later. He’s wedged in between the passenger seat and the dashboard with his feet propped up on the headrest, apparently having determined this to be the most comfortable position. Or maybe he’s just stuck like that.

 

“An apology for what?” Michael’s sitting in the driver’s seat, arms crossed, visibly much less relaxed than the rest of his family.

 

“ _You said_ we wouldn’t be driving anywhere. And _where_ are we now?” They’re in the desert outside Sudden Valley.

 

“You know where we are, Tobias,” Michael says.

 

“Yes, _and_?”

 

“Yes, and _what_?” Wherever he’s going with this isn’t somewhere Michael wants to be.

 

“And _how_ did we get here?” Tobias gestures dramatically at the steering wheel, or tries to, at least. His tone is incredibly smug for a man who won’t be able to relocate himself from his current position without help. _Michael’s_ help, most likely. Michael isn’t looking forward to that.

 

“I drove, Tobias.”

 

“ _Exactly_! The first step to solving your problems is admitting you need help!” He flails around wildly for emphasis.

 

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

 

“You said we weren’t driving anywhere, Michael. And now you’ve _admitted_ that you drove.”

 

“I drove us _out of the hospital parking lot_!” And also a quick detour to the liquor store, but that part’s not really relevant, so Michael leaves it out.

 

“And by doing so, you admitted you have problems. _Apology accepted_!”

 

Michael decides he isn’t going to respond to that nonsense. He thinks Tobias might be trying to hug him now, but fortunately he’s still stuck in the seat.

 

“You do have problems, Michael,” Lindsay says from the other end of the camper.

 

“Your sister’s right,” his mother agrees. She’s standing by the counter, examining the now-overstocked minibar.

 

“You mean _your_ sister.” Michael turns around to look her in the eye.

 

“ _Half_ -sister,” Lucille corrects, reaching for the vodka.

 

“Does that matter? The point is, you lied to us for years-”

 

“All the things I’ve lied to you about, Michael, and you choose this one?” She does have a point.

 

“That’s what I’m saying, Mother. You’re a liar.”

 

His mother makes an offended noise and takes a swig of vodka straight from the bottle. George Michael stands up, motioning toward the cabinet.

 

“Uh, Gangie, we have cups, if you want one-”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Okay.” George Michael sits back down next to his cousin.

 

“Popcorn?” she offers, holding out the open bag.

 

“No thanks,” he responds.

 

“I could go for some popcorn,” Buster says. Maeby frowns at him.

 

“Just throw it at the screen and I’ll open my mouth. It’ll be almost like I can taste it.”

 

Maeby shrugs and does as he says, pelting the iPad with popcorn as Buster holds open his mouth. It’s not like she has anything better to do. Michael spins around to complain, but a popcorn kernel to the forehead changes his mind and he resumes his prior position, opting instead to silently fume.

 

“Try not to choke, Uncle Buster,” George Michael jokes half-heartedly.

 

On the other side of the camper, Gob suddenly stands up, hitting his head on the ceiling. All this talk of choking on popcorn has reminded him of something extremely important. “I need to talk to Michael,” he announces. Michael turns to look at him, but remains seated. “In private,” Gob adds quickly, motioning for his brother to follow him.

 

Michael stands up with an exaggerated eye roll and climbs over the seat. “What is it, Gob?”

 

“Not out here,” Gob whispers, loudly, his eyes darting between the rest of the family members, none of whom are paying him any attention. He shoves Michael into the tiny bathroom and locks the door behind them.

 

“Okay, Gob, what the hell?” Michael isn’t loving this arrangement. The room really wasn’t designed to hold more than a single occupant at a time, so Michael is forced to stand in the shower, which is apparently still wet from the last time it was used. And Gob didn’t bother to turn on the lights, either, so they’re standing in the dark.

 

“You didn’t tell anyone what I said, you know, the last time I saw you, did you?” He sounds nervous. Very nervous.

 

Michael doesn’t respond immediately, instead choosing to stare at the spot in the darkness where he assumes his brother’s face must be and letting him carry this conversation.

 

“You know, about me and Tony?”

 

Oh, so that’s what this is about. Michael opens his mouth to reply, but Gob’s already talking again.

 

“How we fu-”

 

“No, Gob, I didn’t.” He does realize these walls aren’t soundproof, right? Michael doesn’t care either way. “I hadn’t even spoken to anyone in the family until Mom called me yesterday.”

 

“Okay, good, because it’s a secret. Nobody else knows. You can’t tell anybody that I’m … you know-”

 

“Gay?” Michael suggests.

 

“Fucking a dude,” Gob says at the same time.

 

“Gob-”

 

“Getting fucked by a dude. _Whatever_!” Michael can tell that Gob threw his hands in the air haphazardly as he said that last word, because something just hit the ceiling pretty hard.

 

“Ow.”

 

“That hurt?”

 

“No.”

 

There’s a pause before Michael speaks again. “So what exactly is going on there? The _relationship_ part, not the sex part.” He hates that he has to add that, and he knows Gob probably won’t even listen. “Are you two dating? Last I heard, you hated the guy.”

 

“Well you heard wrong, Michael.”

 

“I heard it from _you_.”

 

“You heard _wrong_!”

 

He’s very insistent. Michael decides not to argue. It clearly isn’t going to get him anywhere. And Gob is _still_ talking.

 

“It’s a just a bromance,” he says. “He’s my friend. I mean, _not_ my friend. He’s – we’re rivals. Rivals who have sex sometimes and don’t hate each other.”

 

“And you’ve had sex how many times?” Michael asks. He doesn’t want to know the details, just the answer.

 

“Like today, or in general? If you mean in the past 24 hours, just twice. If you mean all time, I don’t know, Michael! I haven’t been _counting_.” He throws his hands in the air a second time, once again hitting the ceiling and once again crying out in pain. Michael decides to ignore that and just focus on what he’s saying.

 

“Hmm. Yeah, that’s not technically a bromance. Sounds a lot more like dating to me.”

 

“We’re not _dating_. It’s just _hands_! And mouths. And bodies and stuff. But no feelings! We’re not in _love_. I mean, _come on_ , should the guy, should, should-” He’s almost full-on hyperventilating at this point.

 

“Gob-” Michael really doesn’t want to go through all of this again. Gob’s hands are on his shoulders suddenly, eyes boring into Michael’s even though they can’t see each other at all, and when his brother speaks his next words he sounds deadly serious.

 

“I love Tony Wonder, Michael.”

 

Michael rolls his eyes, thankful that he’s still cloaked in darkness. The last thing he needs right now is to be called a robot again for not giving a shit.

 

“That’s great, Gob. Can you please let me out of this cramped bathroom now?”

 

Gob must have nodded, because now the door is unlocked and open. Michael follows him out and grabs the vodka from his mother, not bothering to ask first.

 

“Isn’t it such an embarrassment?” she says as he takes a long swig. “He just _had_ to go be homosexual with another _magician_. Double gold in the Disappointment Olympics. Not that I have anything against the gays, of course, but _honestly_ -”

 

Michael isn’t sure how much sense that makes, but Lucille is pretty tipsy at this point. He wants to be, too, so he just keeps drinking. The rest of the family does the same. Even Buster’s managed to get ahold of some toilet wine. Thirty minutes pass by in relative silence.

 

Lucille is the first relative to break it. “That nurse back at the hospital was such a _bitch_.” She kicks off her shoes for good measure. One of them lands in Michael’s lap.

 

“That was the _doctor_ , mother-sis. Not all doctors are _men_.” Lindsay’s in the driver’s seat now. Her feet are propped up on Tobias’s head. He doesn’t seem to mind, or even notice.

 

“Oh, that’s _right_. You married one.” Lucille smirks.

 

“She married _me_ ,” Tobias slurs, confused. He seems almost more drunk than anyone else, and all he’s had is one Mike’s Hard Lemonade.

 

“Exactly.”

 

“You know what, I had a point I wanted to make here,” Michael says, throwing Lucille’s shoe back towards her as he attempts to stand up. He still wants to talk about his father’s death and his family’s apparent lack of concern. The world is spinning, though, so he quickly sits back down.

 

“Then make your point already, Michael!” His mother is sitting on the edge of the counter between an empty vodka bottle and a half-empty vodka bottle. She’s wearing sunglasses now, for some reason, and fumbling with a cigarette.

 

“Hey, _no smoking_!” Michael’s still too drunk to move, so he settles for pointing menacingly in her direction.

 

“Would you give me a break? My husband just died!” Lucille snaps. “Besides, I can’t seem to light the damn thing…”

 

“I’ll light it,” Gob offers. He’s sitting on the floor next to a bag of ice and an empty whiskey bottle, back against the counter, one hand extended towards his mother. The other is wrapped around a bottle of scotch – his second of the night – which he’s been drinking from while holding ice cubes in his mouth.

 

“Oh, no, you _won’t_!” she replies, slapping his hand away. “I know how you are with fire. You’ll kill us all!”

 

“I will not! I’m not _Buster_.”

 

“I can hear you, you know!” Buster’s iPad-broomstick-Roomba is sitting at the table, wedged between George Michael and Maeby. He has his eye right up against the camera. The angle and proximity are highly disturbing.

 

Lindsay shudders involuntarily at the sight. “Is that the last thing Lucille Austero ever saw?”

 

“You know, I never did understand why you killed her.” Lucille has given up on the cigarette and gone back for more alcohol.

 

“Because of _you_ , Mother! She _kept us apart_!”

 

“And so you’ve said. But that hardly answers the question.”

 

“Don’t you get it, Gangie?” Maeby says dryly. “This is how you’ve raised your children. This is your life now. You’re stuck with it. This-” she gestures around the room at her drunk mother, her two drunk uncles on the floor, and her one drunk uncle in prison, staring from an iPad screen “- is all you have. Forever.”

 

“Well, at least _I_ never played tongue-touch with my cousin.” Lucille lowers her sunglasses to make eye contact with her granddaughter/niece. George Michael shifts in his seat, embarrassed.

 

Maeby, though, is prepared for this. “And _I_ never gave my son an Oedipus complex, so I think we’re even.”

 

“Touche,” Lucille replies, mildly impressed that Maeby even knows what that is.

 

“You have a son?” Gob asks, confused. Maeby rolls her eyes as she turns to look at him.

 

“No, but _you_ do. When was the last time you even spoke to-” she pumps her fists in the air weakly “-Steve Holt?”

 

Gob scrunches up his face, trying to remember.

 

“Ah, yes, Steve Holt,” Lucille says. “Didn’t you lock lips with _him_ as well?” She turns to Lindsay. “And so did _you_ , if I recall correctly.”

 

“I didn’t know we were _related_!” Lindsay waves her arms around in frustration, spilling alcohol all over the steering wheel.

 

“ _Michael_ dirty danced with his niece.”

 

“Gob, that was like ten years ago, and it was by accident.”

 

“It still _happened_.”

 

“Oh, okay, I see how it is. You wanna be like that then, huh? Two can play at that game. What about that time when you hugged me and g-”

 

“Let’s let bygones be bygones!” Gob says quickly. At least he’s embarrassed about it.

 

“It wasn’t just the dove, Gob! I saw the dove on the counter! That was all _you_!” Michael’s determined to have the last word. “Although, you _were_ talking about Tony Wonder’s nuts right beforehand, so in hindsight, I can’t say I’m _too_ surprised-”

 

“Michael, I will _strangle_ you-”

 

“Can we maybe change the subject?” George Michael interjects. “I don’t think I like this conversation very much.”

 

“We’re a disgusting family, son,” Michael says.

 

“But we’re _rich_ , Michael. Don’t forget about that.” Lucille takes another drink. “Only thing your father was ever good for. Well, that and-”

 

“Um-” Michael interrupts, sensing the direction his mother is headed in. He’s not alone there, judging by his siblings’ reactions. Lindsay and Buster are both staring at her in revulsion, and Gob looks like he’s about to have a panic attack.

 

“ _Please_ don’t say it!” Gob insists, pressing his hands to his head and attempting to stand up, his face contorted in distress. “ _Don’t_ say it. Don’t-”

 

“Don’t be such a _baby_. I was just going to say sex.”

 

Gob collapses back down onto the floor, groaning loudly and trying to suppress a gag. He’s not having much success with that. Lucille shakes her head at him, disgusted.

 

“Not so much since you chemically neutered him though, huh Mother?” Michael can’t resist that opportunity.

 

“She did _what_?” Lindsay asks, wide-eyed. This is the first she’s heard of this.

 

Michael nods smugly. “Yup, she absolutely did.”

 

“He _deserved_ it!” Lucille barks. “And not like it matters now, anyway. I’d bet every cent of our hard-earned insurance money that he and Oscar are spit-roasting Lucille Austero in hell as we speak.”

 

“ _Mother_!” Buster half-shrieks, half-gasps.

 

“That’s more than I needed to hear,” Michael says. He’s starting to feel almost as nauseous as Gob looks. Or maybe less so. He thinks Gob might’ve just actually thrown up a little, on the carpet, no less. His mother, on the other hand, looks quite pleased with herself.

 

Gob sits back up, wiping his mouth. “ _Why_?” he manages to choke out before retching again.

 

“Ew,” says Lindsay, wrinkling her nose.

 

“We really are a disgusting family,” George Michael says.

 

“And rich,” Maeby adds, raising her shot glass. There’s not enough tequila in the world to erase _that_ mental image, she’s decided, so she might as well just go along with it.

 

“Long live the Bluths!” yells Tobias, who’s somehow gotten his hands on a second bottle of hard lemonade. He raises it, upside down, and the entire thing pours out on his face. Lindsay inhales sharply and relocates her feet to the dashboard.

 

“ _Not_ all of them,” Michael points out. “Not Dad, and not Uncle Oscar.”

 

“Let’s pour one out for the miserable old bastards,” Maeby suggests, inspired by her father. She grabs George Michael’s beer and, before he can protest, tips it out beside the table. Unfortunately for Michael, this happens to be right where he’s sitting.

 

“Hey! What the _hell_?”

 

“You’re the one who wanted to talk about it, Uncle Michael.” She shrugs, obviously amused with herself.

 

“Talk about it, yes, not have a beer poured on my head about it!”

 

“Is there a difference?”

 

Michael starts to say that _yes_ there’s a difference, _obviously_ , because one of them is an extremely unpleasant experience and the other is … huh. Maybe Maeby’s right. Maybe there isn’t one. Something in the room’s atmosphere has suddenly shifted. The animosity is still very much present, but it’s lost that playful edge it had before. There’s beer in Michael’s eyes and in his hair and all over his favorite shirt.

 

“Your father never loved you, Gob,” Lucille says abruptly. Everyone looks at her. “What? I’m just saying.”

 

Gob doesn’t say anything back, just stares blankly straight ahead. His lip twitches slightly, like he’s trying not to cry.

 

“He never loved any of us,” Michael says, feeling left out. “Gob isn’t special.”

 

“Wow, Michael, way to make everything about yourself,” Lindsay retorts.

 

“You are so self-centered, Michael,” Buster adds. Gob just barely manages to nod in agreement before bursting into a hysterical mixture of laughter and tears and burying his face in his hands. Michael rolls his eyes.

 

“Are you three serious? Me, the most _selfless_ person in our entire family-”

 

“Says who, yourself?” His sister/aunt is staring him down over the top of the driver’s seat, arms folded.

 

“Lindsay-”

 

“No, Michael, I really want to know.” She surveys the room with her eyes before continuing. “Anyone who thinks Michael’s selfless, raise your hand.”

 

Michael, of course, raises his hand. No one else does, not even-

 

“George Michael!”

 

“What, Dad?”

 

“Really, son? You’re not gonna raise your hand?”

 

“Dad, please don’t make me-”

 

“I’m not gonna _make_ you raise your hand, obviously. That wouldn’t be selfless of me at all. Then it’d just be like, ‘oh, hey, that guy’s forcing his kid to do whatever he says, what an asshole.’ And I’m not like that, son. You _know_ I’m not like that. So go ahead and raise that hand, buddy. Do it for me. I mean, not for _me_ , obviously. Do it for _you_. Because you know how proud it’ll make me. And I do _so much_ for this family, son, so surely you can do this _one_ little thing for me. Well, I mean, not _for_ me, but-”

 

“Do you hear yourself, Uncle Michael?” Maeby’s staring down at him incredulously.

 

“You stay out of this!”

 

“Don’t talk to my daughter like that!” Lindsay reaches over the back of the seat and grabs a fistful of Michael’s hair, yanking it as hard as she can. “Ew, why is this wet?”

 

“ _Your daughter_ poured beer on me! And let go! That hurts!”

 

“Oh.” Lindsay takes a moment to consider that, the alcohol in her system noticeably delaying her response time, then relaxes her grip. “Well, good for her!”

 

George Michael breaks the few seconds of awkward silence that follow by clearing his throat. “Dad, I was gonna say please don’t make me say it. You interrupted me before I could fi-”

 

Michael frowns. “Don’t make you say what? You didn’t have to _say_ anything. All you had to do was raise your hand, because otherwise it looks like you don’t think I’m...” He trails off, starting to connect the dots. “Selfless.” He motions to himself, then to his son. “George Michael. You don’t think I’m selfless?”

 

George Michael shakes his head, still not entirely ready to say it out loud. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

 

“So, what, you think I’m the opposite? You think I’m self _ish_? Name _one_ selfish thing I’ve ever done.” He’s up on his knees now, leaning on the table to support himself. George Michael quickly grabs the other end to prevent it from tipping over.

 

“When I was in high school you hated my girlfriend-”

 

Michael has no memory of that. “What girlfriend, George Michael? Weren’t you single in high school?”

 

His son facepalms with his free hand, then observes him through his fingers. “No, Dad. Her name was Ann?”

 

The name doesn’t ring any bells. “Never met her.” Michael sets his chin in his hands, elbows on the table, determined to prove his son wrong. “Name five more selfish things I’ve done. You can’t do it, can you?”

 

George Michael, of course, _can_ do that, and he can do it easily. “Well, for starters, you made me tear up that $50,000 check Gangie and Pop-Pop tried to give me for my high school graduation.”

 

That one Michael does remember. “Well, it would’ve been a bad investment.” Sort of, at least.

 

“You moved into my dorm room-”

 

Why is everyone still ragging on him for that? “That wasn’t even a full year!”

 

“You dated the same girl as me, at the same time, even after you knew I was the other guy!” George Michael sounds angry now. Michael doesn’t understand why.

 

“But that wouldn’t have worked out anyway, though, would it have? She never got over me.”

 

“Pretty sure she’s over you,” Maeby says under her breath. Michael decides to be the bigger person and ignore that little comment. How would Maeby know, anyway? Besides, this is about him and George Michael.

 

“You snuck into that barbecue at her dad’s house to _spy_ on me-”

 

“No, George Michael, I was spying on _them._ ”

 

“Oh, and that’s better somehow?”

 

Michael doesn’t answer.

 

“And, finally, what about Phoenix?” He doesn’t even sound angry now, just exasperated.

 

“What about it, son?”

 

“You never even asked me if I _wanted_ to go!”

 

“Well why wouldn’t you? It’s always been our dream!”

 

“Your dream, Dad. It’s always been _your_ dream.”

 

Maeby can’t help but laugh a little at the cliché currently unfolding on either side of her. Both her uncle( _or is he her cousin?_ ) and her cousin( _second cousin?_ _first cousin once removed?_ _whatever he is_ ) pay her no mind, too absorbed in their argument.

 

“I thought you said you loved Phoenix.”

 

“I did say that, and then we left. You ignored it, just like everything else I say.”

 

Michael is offended. “Hey, we left _for the family_. Your Pop-Pop is dead, or have you forgotten?”

 

“I mean before that, Dad. Before the phone call. When we were headed in the opposite direction.” He pauses, briefly, curious to see if his father will say anything else. “Or have _you_ forgotten?”

 

Michael hasn’t forgotten, but he’s not about to admit that. Not in front of his entire family. They don’t need to know why he left Phoenix. Of course, they’re all looking at him now in a way that makes it clear he has their complete undivided attention, even Gob, who apparently stopped sobbing at some point to watch the shit hit the fan. He needs a distraction...

 

“Buster killed someone! _Twice_!” Michael points at the iPad screen for emphasis. Buster gasps.

 

“How does one kill someone twice?” Tobias asks, craning his neck to look even more closely at Michael.

 

“Two different people! You know what I mean!”

 

“Don’t try to change the subject, Dad,” George Michael warns.

 

“No, I think we should change the subject,” says Buster.

 

George Michael ignores him, inadvertently granting his wish. “Forget Phoenix, okay? Do you even know what my dream is, Dad? Or what it used to be, anyway, before you killed it?”

 

Maeby tears open another popcorn bag and reaches inside. Michael glares at her momentarily before returning his focus to his son. “What was your dream, son?”

 

“Woodblock.”

 

“Beg pardon?”

 

“Woodblock!” George Michael repeats, frustrated. “You know, like-” he pulls out his phone and opens Fakeblock, tapping the screen enough times to give his father the hint.

 

“Uh-huh,” Michael says, brow furrowed in confusion. It’s obvious he still doesn’t _get_ it.

 

“This is what Fakeblock was supposed to be. A woodblock app. P-Hound and I came up with the idea when we were making my demo tape for Julliard.”

 

“Why were you making a demo tape for Julliard, son? You realize they don’t do woodblock there, right?”

 

“Of course I do, Dad! That’s why the tape had to be perfect. It was supposed to convince them to open up a woodblock division. I know it sounds stupid, but...” George Michael trails off, not sure what else to say. At this point, he doubts Michael will ever truly _hear_ him.

 

“I don’t think it sounds stupid,” a voice behind Michael says out of the blue, reminding him of Lindsay’s presence. “I think you should follow your dreams.”

 

“Thanks, Aunt Lindsay.”

 

Michael’s eyes flick back and forth between his sister/aunt and his son, who are both smiling at each other. “Wait a second,” he half-slurs, climbing to his feet only to immediately fall back down on his ass. “I see what’s going on here. You’re trying to make me look bad, Lindsay, and it’s not gonna work. I’m the one who’s supposed to be supporting my son.”

 

Lindsay doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, you’re doing a pretty shitty job at it then, aren’t you?”

 

Tobias rips some of the gauze off of his arm and thrusts it towards Michael. “Could I interest you in some _ice_ for that burn? Oh, hang on, this isn’t ice. Nevermind.” He attempts to reattach the gauze and instead winds up dropping it under the seat, proceeding to feel around for it aimlessly with no luck. “Oh, balls-”

 

Michael ignores him. “ _You’re_ gonna lecture _me_ about good parenting, miss ‘I don’t have a daughter’?”

 

“How about leaving me out of this?” Maeby requests, irritated.

 

“Yeah, you’re used to being left out of things, aren’t you?” Michael says before he can stop himself. Immediately Lindsay’s hand is back in his hair, somehow yanking even harder than before. Maeby only rolls her eyes and takes another shot.

 

“Ow! _Ow_! Lindsay! Let _go_!”

 

“No, Michael, _you_ let go!”

 

They’re both too intoxicated to realize how little sense that makes. “ _You_ let go!” Michael shouts, grabbing for Lindsay’s hair and missing.

 

“ _You_ let go, Michael!” Lindsay shouts back. “I’m _trying_ to change! I’m _trying_ to be a better person! You think I don’t know how much time I’ve wasted?”

 

Michael stops struggling and tilts his head back so his eyes meet hers. Are those… _tears_? Lindsay lets go of Michael’s hair, embarrassed by the sudden and unexpected eye contact. Michael takes the opportunity to scoot himself just out of her arms’ reach.

 

“ _You_ , a better person?” He pats himself on the back for still managing to sound condescending in his highly inebriated state. Literally, which he doesn’t quite realize he did until he hears laughter from the rest of the family and becomes aware of where his hand is. He quickly relocates it to the floor beside him, his face reddening in embarrassment.

 

“Why is that so hard for you to believe, Michael?” Lindsay asks. There’s something in her voice that catches Michael off guard, an authenticity he’s never heard from her before. The hurt in her eyes is raw and real, and the fact that Maeby’s staring at him with a very similar look on her face is equally jarring.

 

Instead of answering, Michael looks up at his mother, who hasn’t spoken in a while.

 

“What?” Lucille asks, absentmindedly spinning her sunglasses. “She didn’t say she was on a _diet_ , did she?”

 

Lindsay gasps and drops her martini glass. “Okay, that is _it_. Would it kill you to say _one_ nice thing to me?”

 

“How should I know? I’ve never tried.”

 

“Exactly. And would it kill you to _try_?” Lindsay doesn’t wait for a response before continuing. “I don’t know _why_ I thought things would be any different now. We have _one_ moment that could _almost_ pass for heartwarming, and then you go right back to treating me like garbage.”

 

“Well, Lindsay, to be fair,” Michael says, already forgetting how the conversation started, “it is _notoriously_ difficult to teach an old dog new tricks.”

 

Lucille narrows her eyes and purses her lips. Lindsay cracks a smile as she wipes the surprisingly-genuine-looking teardrops from her eyes. Just like that, the playful animosity is back.

 

“ _Burn_!” Gob wheeze-yells right in Michael’s ear, grinning and clapping him on the shoulder. Michael whirls around immediately, praying to any god who might be listening that he won’t see a lighter in his brother’s other hand. Fortunately, it’s empty. It’s also anticipating a high five, which, this time, Michael obliges.

 

Buster erupts into hysterical giggling. “Look at Mother’s _face_! She is so _mad_ at you, _Michael_!”

 

“Yes, _almost_ mad enough to push him down the stairs,” Lucille replies. “Oh, but _wait_ – _I’m_ not the one who does that, am I?”

 

Buster’s face sours and he rolls his eyes. “Yeah, go straight to that, why don’t we? You do something _one time_ -”

 

“Two times,” Lucille interrupts.

 

“- _two_ times, and you can _never_ live it down! Is that all everybody sees me as? A _murderer_?” The Roomba spins around in a circle as Buster observes his surviving family members. The glare on his face is a stark contrast from earlier in the night, when he seemed to find his situation laughable. Lucille merely rolls her eyes, having witnessed him flip-flop on the issue far too many times to keep track of.

 

“Well, you know, buddy,” Michael says, “the orange jumpsuit doesn’t exactly help to distract the eye.”

 

“Okay, well, what if I-” Buster leans in way too close to the camera, hoping to conceal his prison uniform from view. George Michael screams and jumps back, nearly falling out of his seat, which Maeby finds hilarious.

 

“That’s not the best look either,” Michael says, somewhat redundantly, as he scoots back towards Lindsay and away from his older brother, who he’s pretty sure just tried to use him as a human shield.

 

“Fine then!” Buster replies, flipping the camera around to face the prison wall. “I shall be neither seen nor heard!”

 

“Why not just turn off the godforsaken thing?” Lucille asks. Buster doesn’t answer. “Fine, ignore me. See if I care. Spoiler alert: I don’t.” She reaches into her purse for another cigarette, this time managing to successfully light it. Michael doesn’t say anything, just frowns.

 

Suddenly something occurs to him, and he assumes what he hopes is an intellectual pose. “Why don’t _you_ turn it off?”

 

“Hmm?” She pauses mid-drag of her cigarette.

 

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” George Michael says, prompting Michael to nod in agreement. “This iPad has a power button too. Why don’t you just turn this one off if you don’t want to see him?”

 

Lucille exhales dramatically, her attempt to blow smoke in Tobias’s face thwarted by the seat back. She turns to face her grandson. “What do you mean?”

 

“It’s right here, Gangie,” George Michael replies, reaching towards the power button. Surely his grandmother isn’t _that_ inept when it comes to technology? “All you’d have to do is press it, and-”

 

“ _No_!” Lucille shrieks, jumping up from her spot on the counter to physically prevent her grandson from doing what he’s about to do. “Don’t you _dare_!”

 

George Michael raises his hands in surrender. Lucille takes a step back, suddenly aware that all eyes are on her. “ _What_? Well, go on, say something, _someone_. Why are you all staring at me like that?”

 

No one answers, but everyone’s thinking the same thing. Michael, Gob, and Lindsay exchange glances.

 

Buster’s face fills the iPad screen. “Ha! I _knew_ it! I _knew_ you loved me!”

 

“ _Love_ is an awfully strong word,” Lucille replies, resuming her seated position and taking another drag off her cigarette. “I prefer the term-”

 

Tobias snores suddenly, ear-splittingly loud. Lucille’s mouth remains hanging open and she never finishes her thought, too put off by the _audacity_. “That works too, I suppose,” she eventually manages.

 

“Dad’s dead,” Michael says for the thousandth time. “Are we just pretending he’s not?”

 

“You haven’t spoken to any of us in months, Michael. Why is _that_ the only thing you care about?” Lindsay asks, repositioning herself yet again so that her feet are underneath her. Her eyes are locked on Michael, clearly awaiting a reply.

 

“I mean, it is _pretty major_ , don’t you think?” Michael responds, still in disbelief that he has to defend himself over this.

 

Lindsay scoffs. “Not really. He was _old_. Old people _die_ , Michael.”

 

“Mom’s old too, and _she’s_ still alive.” He immediately wishes he’d said something along the lines of “typically not by falling off a cliff” instead, but it’s too late for that now.

 

“That’s different,” Lindsay says, rolling her eyes.

 

“How?”

 

“I mean, do you think she even _can_ die?” Lindsay asks, gesturing at Lucille.

 

Michael considers the question for a moment. “Okay, I see what you’re getting at, and you’ve got a point there. For a person’s heart to give out, they do have to _have_ one. My apologies, Mother.”

 

Lucille says nothing, merely rolling her eyes dramatically and inhaling from her cigarette. Michael suspects she’s taken that as a compliment. He turns back to Lindsay as his mother exhales a cloud of smoke. “Okay, Lindsay. Enlighten me. If Dad dying isn’t major, what is?”

 

“Gob has a _boyfriend_ ,” Lindsay points out. Everyone turns to look at Gob, whose eyes have gone wide. He tries to stand up, hits his head on the wall, and immediately falls back down.

 

“I – wha – how do _you_ know about that?” Gob stutters. “I mean, I _don’t_ , but how would you know if I did? Should the guy – _sh_ – should-”

 

“Gob, please. He’s all you ever talk about. And I’ve walked in on you two making out, more than once,” Lindsay says matter-of-factly.

 

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Gob replies hoarsely, rubbing the back of his head. His face is crimson.

 

“You had your hands down each other’s pants.”

 

“That’s _just hands_! That doesn’t – I’m not – should – _should_ -”

 

“And Sally Sitwell told me-”

 

“Since when do you talk to Sally Sitwell?” Michael interrupts.

 

Lindsay rolls her eyes. “Really, Michael? I was on the phone with her when you came in!”

 

Something about that statement seems off, but Michael can’t quite put his finger on it. Plus, Lindsay’s still talking, which makes it kind of hard to think.

 

“Anyway, Gob, Sally Sitwell told me you’ve practically moved in with him!” she continues.

 

“I – he – _we_ – should the guy-”

 

“I think you guys are cute together, Uncle Gob,” Maeby says, both because it’s true and because she knows it’ll embarrass him even further, although admittedly mostly the latter.

 

“We’re not _together_! We’re just – it’s just – just _hands_ – should-”

 

“Give it up already with the ‘just hands’ bullshit,” Lucille interjects, rolling her eyes at her oldest son. “You think I don’t know what you do with him _in my bed_ every time you invite him over to the penthouse? I’ve had to _burn_ so many perfectly good sets of sheets!”

 

“Plus, your sex tape is on the internet,” Lindsay adds casually. “Tobias tried to make me watch it with him.”

 

Gob looks like he wants to disappear into the floor. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t currently possess the supplies required to perform that illusion.

 

“Jesus Christ, Gob,” Michael says, facepalming. “I thought you said this was a _secret_.”

 

“It _is_ a secret!” Gob insists as he blushes an even deeper shade of red. Michael has never seen him so embarrassed, about anything, and despite the less-than-ideal topic of conversation he finds his brother’s discomfort oddly satisfying. “No, I – _it_ – there is no secret! There’s _nothing_ going on, so should – _should_ – I – should the guy in – in the guy-”

 

“You’ve always been such a _terrible_ magician,” his mother says. “Never could keep your mouth shut.”

 

“I – _I_ – should I-” Gob stammers before finally managing to shut his mouth, forced to grapple with the realization that he’s not nearly as sneaky as he’d thought he was. He quickly chugs the rest of his drink.

 

“What about Pop-Pop?” George Michael asks suddenly, not sure he can take anymore secondhand embarrassment. Maeby rolls her eyes.

 

“What about him? He’s dead, and we’re rich again. That’s pretty much the whole story.”

 

“No, but I – I mean, shouldn’t we talk about it? My dad’s probably right.”

 

“ _Thank you_ , George Michael,” Michael says.

 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, can’t we save all that crap for the funeral?” Lucille smokes the last of her cigarette, then, unable to find an ashtray nearby, snuffs it out on the bottom of Tobias’s shoe. He snores loudly again in response.

 

“We’re having a funeral? Without a body?” Michael asks, somewhat surprised.

 

“Why not?” his mother replies. “We didn’t have one last time.”

 

Gob clears his throat as he sets down his empty bottle, having made a full recovery from his nervous breakdown.

 

Lucille sighs. “Well, we had your idiot brother. But that, _needless_ to say, was a miserable failure.”

 

This jogs Michael’s memory, and he turns to look at his idiot brother. “Hey, didn’t that illusion finally get you in that Poof?”

 

Gob rolls his eyes. “No, that was the Amazing Jesus illusion. And we do it the other way around, _Mike_. How many times do I have to tell you?”

 

“I meant the _magazine_. And thanks for that image, by the way.” Michael shakes his head, trying to dispel it.

 

“Oh, then yeah. And you’re _welcome_.”

 

Michael decides to change the subject. “When’s the funeral, Mom?”

 

“It’s tomorrow,” she responds without looking up.

 

“ _Tomorrow_?”

 

Lucille glances at the dashboard clock, shrugging. “Today, if you want to get all technical. 2:30 PM.”

 

It’s Michael’s turn to glance at the clock. “That’s in like nine hours!”

 

“And I need my beauty sleep, so you may as well drive me home now.” She holds out her hand, examining her nails. Michael facepalms.

 

“Mother, I’m drunk. Call yourself a cab.” Michael stands up and stumbles his way towards the bedroom, barely managing to avoid crashing into his brother. He slams the door shut behind him, but it immediately pops back open. He doesn’t bother attempting to close it again.

 

“Gob, call me a cab,” Lucille orders, rising to her feet.

 

“Mom, you’re a cab,” Gob says, only half-awake and failing completely to comprehend what she meant. He’s curled up on the floor now and using the bag of ice as a pillow, apparently too drunk to feel the cold.

 

“And you’re a homo. Oh, for the love of god, I’ll just do it myself. Come on, Buster, we’re leaving.” She grabs the iPad-broomstick-Roomba from its seat at the table and heads for the door. Buster doesn’t respond, having passed out on his prison cot some time ago.

 

George Michael looks over at Maeby and Lindsay. “So do you guys want to-”

 

“We’ll just walk over to the model home. It’s like, right there,” Maeby says, pointing. Her mother nods in agreement.

 

“Okay, cool.”

 

“Bye, George Michael.”

 

“Bye. Good night.”

 

He watches as they disappear into the night, then as the cab his grandmother called arrives. The cab driver seems a little weirded out by the second “passenger” but says nothing, and they drive away without incident. George Michael remains seated at the table for several minutes after that, just staring out the window and trying to digest the whirlwind that had been the past 24 hours. He’d started the day in Phoenix, been on his way to Florida by the early afternoon, and – after finding out his grandfather was dead – ended the day back in Newport Beach. And apparently there’s insurance money, so apparently the Bluths are once again wealthy. Also apparently his uncle is really super gay(Gob, not Tobias), which does explain a lot now that he thinks about it. And Lindsay and Maeby seem to be much closer than before, which is good, and he hadn’t felt too awkward around Maeby even though they’d kissed last time they saw each other, which is also good, even though it’s bound to come up at some point or another and that’s bound to be an awkward discussion. And speaking of awkward discussions – shit, he’d had an argument with his father, hadn’t he? But that had gone over okay, and maybe they won’t bring it up ever again. But is that really what he wants?

 

Tobias snores again and George Michael jerks his head up, suddenly wide awake. He hadn’t even realized he’d been nodding off. He sighs, shaking his head. He should probably go to bed, he decides. It’s been a really long day, and he has to get up in the morning – no, it’s morning _now_ ; he has to get up in the _afternoon_ – and get ready for the funeral, and he’s had a lot of booze, even excluding what little he managed to drink of that one beer before Maeby dumped it out on his father, and he’s so _tired_ he can barely even think straight. He stands up, leaning on the wall for support, and makes his way back to the bedroom, nearly tripping over his sleeping uncle in the process. He’s worried it’ll take him awhile to fall asleep, given everything that’s on his mind right now, but the thoughts all fade away the instant his head hits the pillow.

 


	3. The Middle

Michael wakes up and immediately checks the time, forcing his vision to focus. It’s 11:03. There’s sunlight streaming in through the windows. It takes him a second to remember where he is – he’s in the camper, obviously, but where is the camper? Not Phoenix, not after _that_. Not Florida either – oh, right, Sudden Valley. Because he’s back in Newport Beach, because his father’s dead. On the other end of the bed his son is still asleep. Michael decides to let him rest. He sits up, brushing his hair out of his face with his hands. It’s sticky. Very sticky. Why is his hair so sticky?

 

Up at the front of the camper, someone snores, obnoxiously loud. Michael adjusts his position to gaze through the open bedroom door. In the passenger seat he sees two feet, each clad in a wool sock and a leather sandal. The left sandal has a cigarette burn on the sole. _Tobias_ , Michael thinks, the events of last night rushing back to him all at once along with a raging headache. He vaguely remembers his mother leaving with Buster, then hearing Lindsay and Maeby leave while he was lying in bed. That leaves Gob and Tobias, the latter of whom is clearly still stuck in between the passenger seat and the dashboard. The former, at least, seems to be gone, apparently having left at some point while Michael was asleep. Michael contemplates calling him to make sure he’s still alive, then decides he doesn’t care enough to bother.

 

He does, however, care about the stickiness of his hair, which he now recognizes as the remnants of the beer his niece poured on him. It’s all over the pillow, too, and the sheets, and his shirt. His _favorite_ shirt. He decides he’ll deal with the laundry after he takes a shower.

 

After the shower, though, now that his head is slightly clearer, Michael can tell that the entire camper is a mess. There’s at least three types of alcohol spilled on the driver’s seat alone and what appears to be broken glass crushed into the floorboard. Pieces of popcorn are strewn all across the floor, some even stuck to the walls. One somehow managed to make it inside the cabinet, and it falls out right into Michael’s coffee. There’s vomit on the carpet( _and is that a handcuff key in the middle of it?_ ) and something that smells suspiciously like lighter fluid coating the underside of the table. His mother’s shoes are still where she kicked them off, and the bag of now-melted ice is dripping everywhere. And, of course, there’s his brother-in-law, who’s still asleep and still snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

 

“Tobias!” Michael yells, poking at him with the first thing he could find, which happens to be a plunger. “Wake up!”

 

It takes a few more nudges, but eventually Tobias’s eyes snap open and he lets out a startled cry as he tumbles out of the camper. Michael wonders if he maybe should’ve waited until after Tobias was awake to open the passenger side door, but his method _di_ _d_ have the desired effect and Tobias doesn’t seem to be too badly hurt, so he’s willing to count it as a win-win. Tobias is groaning in what must be at least mild discomfort, though, so Michael hops out onto the ground to check on him.

 

Tobias is splayed out flat on his back, legs spread-eagle and arms stretched wide. The gauze from the hospital has come completely unraveled, and he looks like a toilet paper mummy in the midst of attempting a snow angel in the gritty desert sand. He lifts his head up, squinting, to look at Michael.

 

“You okay?” Michael asks, hoping his tone of voice doesn’t reveal just how little he cares about the answer.

 

“Oh, me? Pff, I’m fine.” Tobias waves his hand across his face as he starts to get up. “A little embarrassed, perhaps, to be finding myself completely at your mercy and in such a compromising position, but nothing that can’t be fixed with a little-”

 

“Uh huh, great,” says Michael, who stopped listening about six words in. He’s already back inside the camper, but he opens the door again when he sees that Tobias is still just standing there. “Do you… need something?”

 

“Where is everyone?”

 

“Can’t really say for sure, but I think Lindsay and Maeby went to the model home. You should probably go join them. I bet they’re worried about you.” That last part isn’t true in the slightest, but Michael is willing to say anything as long as Tobias gets the hint. Which, apparently, he does, as his reaction is to immediately spin around and sprint in that direction.

 

Michael sighs, shutting the door for what he hopes will be the final time. He surveys the previous night’s damage once more, shaking his head in defeat. There’s no way he’ll be able to get this thing cleaned up before the funeral starts, and it’s in no shape for driving either. He considers heading over to the model home to see if his smartcar is still there, but decides he’d rather not risk another encounter with Tobias.

 

He checks the time again. It’s 1:37. No, that can’t be right; it feels like barely a half hour has gone by since he woke up. Sure, his vision was blurring, and he might’ve been seeing double a little bit, but he could’ve sworn that clock said – _shit_. He’d been seeing double. That clock hadn’t said 11:03. It’d said 1:03. He’d woken up two hours later than he thought he had. Shit, the _funeral_ -

 

“George Michael!” he shouts, rushing into the bedroom. It’s empty. He looks around, confused. The sound of the shower running suddenly cuts off, and only then does Michael realize it had been on in the first place. George Michael steps out of the bathroom a second later, a towel wrapped around his waist.

 

“Dad? What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing, son.” Now Michael is embarrassed. “Just wanted to make sure you were up. Pop-Pop’s funeral is in less than an hour.”

 

George Michael nods and steps back into the bathroom. Michael catches a glimpse of a suit hanging up before the door shuts and realizes he should probably put on his own suit. He does so, and then it occurs to him that he has no idea where this funeral is even supposed to take place. Sighing again, he picks up the phone and calls his mother.

 

-

 

As it turns out, the funeral is supposed to take place at some church. Holy Eternal Rapture, or something like that. Michael doesn’t bother trying to memorize the name. He does manage to memorize the address, fortunately, considering the necessity of this information for their Uber driver.

 

“Oh yeah, I know that place,” the guy says, trying to make conversation. It’s his first day driving for Uber and he’s hoping to make a good impression on his first-ever passengers. He’s already a little weirded out, considering he’d picked them up from a camper in the desert right outside of a well-known sex offender safe haven, but other than that they seem normal enough. “They make these god-awful religious TV specials about shit like-”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Michael replies, cutting him off. “My sister’s husband is in those.”

 

Well, that’s a little awkward. The driver isn’t sure if he’s offended by the comment or just not in the mood for a friendly chat. He decides to try again, hoping it’s none of the above.

 

“Well, did you hear about that magician dude like six or seven years ago who had this huge wedding there, then tried to run away from it by doing some magic trick that went wrong, then got trapped in a storage locker for weeks and almost died?”

 

“Yeah, that was my brother,” Michael says, barely paying attention. “He’s gay now.”

 

“Oh.” The driver pauses for a few moments, not quite sure how to respond. He can’t tell if the middle-aged man in the backseat is homophobic or just not super fond of his brother. The younger man next to him hasn’t said anything and is just staring out the window. “Well, at least he’s not a serial killer, am I right?”

 

“No, _he’s_ not, but my other brother is.”

 

“You’re _kidding_ me.”

 

“I’m not. He pushes old ladies down stairs.”

 

That sounds like it has to be a joke, but the expression he can see on Michael’s face in the rearview mirror leads him to believe otherwise.

 

“ _Shit_ , man, sorry. I didn’t know.”

 

Michael doesn’t respond, at least not verbally. The driver decides to make one last shot at polite conversation, still hoping to cut through the tension. “So I couldn’t help but notice how you guys are all dressed up. What’s the big occasion?”

 

It’s the younger one who answers this time. “It’s my grandfather’s funeral.”

 

Well, there goes _that_. The Uber driver mumbles another apology, then decides to just shut his mouth and focus on getting them to their destination. In the awkward silence that follows, he decides maybe he’s not cut out for this job.

 

-

 

The church is packed almost completely full. _Half of Newport Beach must be here_ , Michael thinks to himself as he and his son step out of the car. Did his father even _know_ all these people? There’s definitely _some_ familiar faces. Wayne Jarvis is here, and so is Bob Loblaw. And is that Lottie Dottie and Dustin Radler over there? So many lawyers. He’s pretty sure he sees Kitty Sanchez talking to Ron Howard across the courtyard, and he’s certainly not eager to catch up with either one of them. Barry Zuckerkorn is hiding in a bush. He makes eye contact with Michael and presses a finger to his lips. Michael rolls his eyes. Gene Parmesan is also here, and, for whatever reason, he’s wearing a fake mustache on top of his real mustache and a toupee that matches neither his real hair nor his fake mustache. There’s a little kid staring at the sad excuse for a private investigator, and a girl with a face Michael feels like he should recognize – even though he _knows_ he’s never seen her before in his life – is yelling at the young child not to talk to weird strangers.

 

“Oh my god, that’s Ann,” George Michael says. “I haven’t seen her in _years_.”

 

“Who?” asks Michael. He tunes out his son’s response because he notices a news crew. John Beard, and that woman whose tits his brother strangely chose to compare to geodes. He’s not sure if Gob actually knows what a geode _is_. He makes a mental note to ask him the next time they see each other – and speaking of which, where _is_ Gob? Michael still hasn’t seen him, or anyone else in the family for that matter.

 

“Michael!” He would recognize _that_ voice anywhere. It’s his mother. He turns around to see her making her way towards him through the crowd, cocktail in hand, trailed by Buster – the real Buster, not the iPad-broomstick-Roomba from last night – and… Warden Gentles? For some reason they’re handcuffed together, Buster’s right hand to Gentles’ left.

 

“Hey, brother,” Buster says, waving with his stump. He’s wearing a black jumpsuit instead of the usual orange, apparently the prison equivalent of funeral garb.

 

“Um-” is all Michael can manage in reply, too distracted by whatever the hell is going on there to form a coherent response.

 

“Ingenious, isn’t it?” asks Warden Gentles, sensing his confusion. “You see, typically, we’d just have the prisoner in cuffs, but ol’ Busty here only has the one hand, so we had to do a little… _improv_.” This last word is accompanied by jazz hands, which Buster tries and fails to go along with.

 

“Uh huh,” Michael replies. “I’m surprised you didn’t just chain him to my mother.”

 

“Too high of an escape risk,” Warden Gentles says. “We _did_ consider it.”

 

Michael nods. His mother, however, is shaking her head.

 

“Oh, Michael, _please_. What sort of impression would _that_ leave on the mourners? Besides, these gloves are designer. I absolutely _cannot_ risk a tear!”

 

It’s only then that Michael takes note of the outfit she has on. “Is that-”

 

“An all-black replica of my wedding gown, right down to the veil? Why, yes, Michael, it is.”

 

“Doesn’t that seem like a bit… much?”

 

“Michael, I’m a _widow_ now. I have to look the part!” She pauses, then leans in a little closer. “Besides, you should see what your _brother’s_ wearing.”

 

Michael can smell vodka on her breath. “You mean the jumpsuit?”

 

“ _What_? No, Michael, not _him_. The other one.”

 

“Oh.” He’s almost afraid to ask.

 

Lucille stirs her drink, then continues. “And I don’t even want to _say_ how much I had to bribe him with to not put on one of his god-awful ‘magic shows’ today.”

 

Michael nods, recalling past disasters. “Well, that was probably a good investment.”

 

“I swear, I shouldn’t have even _invited_ him. I should have known he would pull something like this...”

 

“I have to say, Mom, personally, I’m a little surprised to see you invited Buster.” He turns to his younger brother. “No offense, buddy. It’s just the whole _prison_ thing...”

 

“Oh, no, I get it,” Buster replies, bobbing his head. “Mom got me off for the day, although I don’t know _how_.”

 

Michael grimaces, an unpleasant image having now forced its way inside his mind. “Yeah, I think I can guess how. Something tells me you’re not the only one she _got off_.”

 

Warden Gentles winks. “A gentleman never tells,” he says. Buster stares at him in disgust.

 

Lucille slaps Michael across the face with her purse. “Don’t be so crass, Michael! We’re at my husband’s funeral, for god’s sake!”

 

“ _Jesus_ , Mom. I’m _sorry_.” He considers reminding her of how she and Buster behaved at Tracey’s funeral, but decides it isn’t worth the possible retaliation. Rubbing his face, he decides to change the subject. “So where is Gob?”

 

“He’s inside already with that little _boy toy_ of his. God, they’re so _flamboyant_ , they make me want to-”

 

“Set yourself on fire?” Michael asks, certain that they’ve had this conversation before, although he can’t imagine _when_.

 

Lucille nods.

 

“Well, if you ask him nicely, I’m sure he’d be willing to help you out with that.”

 

“Don’t remind me. Oh, and Michael, that reminds me, your sister and her daughter and the anus tart are inside as well.”

 

“Right. Why aren’t you inside?”

 

“I was looking for _you_ , Michael! Now come on, everyone’s waiting.” She grabs him by the wrist and pulls him towards the open door. Buster and Warden Gentles follow, and George Michael follows behind them. A minute later, they’re all seated in the section of pews marked as ‘reserved for family’.

 

Michael takes a quick glance at his “family.” There’s himself and his son, obviously, and then his mother, and then Buster, who, of course, is handcuffed to the prison warden. Then there’s Lindsay and Maeby and Tobias, and then Gob, whose outfit really isn’t nearly as inappropriate as Michael was expecting – it’s just a simple black tux, although it does appear to be coated entirely in glitter. He’s sitting very closely next to a man Michael recognizes as Tony Wonder, who’s wearing a matching glitter suit. Michael tries not to think too much about the implications of this man being considered “family.” And then there’s that guy from pest control. What the hell is _he_ doing here? After a few seconds it finally dawns on Michael that this is Steve Holt, his brother’s bastard son. Next to Steve is another bastard son, this one Tobias’s. Michael spends several moments trying to figure out why Murphybrown Funke was even invited before eventually coming to the conclusion that he hadn’t been and had just shown up for the free food. He had also apparently brought his girlfriend, Tobias’s ex. _Jesus, what a mess_.

 

Another person sits down at the end of the pew. They’re wearing a hat and a scarf that covers most of their face, but Michael barely has time to speculate about their identity before Pastor Veal begins to speak.

 

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of a man-”

 

Lucille clears her throat rather loudly. Pastor Veal acknowledges this, then re-checks the script he’s so obviously reading from. “I’m sorry, a _great_ man. We are here to celebrate the life of a great man...”

 

Lucille nods in approval. Pastor Veal nods back, barely concealing how little he believes the words he just spoke. “The family of the deceased has provided a slideshow honoring his memory, which we will now … Father Marsala, would you do the honors?”

 

The blank screen behind him is suddenly host to a large, blown up photo of the late George Bluth, Sr. The words “George Oscar Bluth, Sr: A Life In Pictures” adorn the top of the image. The bottom features the date of birth and the date of death, which Michael can’t help but notice is almost two weeks prior. Pastor Veal sits down off to the side, nodding blankly at the audience. He forces a smile at the Bluth family, most of whom look tired and hung over. The one who abandoned his daughter at the altar appears to be falling asleep, as his head is resting on the shoulder of the man sitting next to him – who, if he’s not mistaken, is the same man who impregnated his daughter after her failed wedding and then promptly disappeared. The smile falters. He glances at the widow, who is drinking openly, and the smile vanishes altogether.

 

“Mother,” Michael says, tapping her on the shoulder. She turns to look at him, less than impressed.

 

“What is it, Michael?”

 

“Are those dates… accurate?”

 

She seems offended by the question. “Of course they are, Michael. I put this together myself.”

 

“Great. So that leads me to my second question-”

 

“Which is?”

 

“What the _hell_?” Several people are staring at them now, but Michael doesn’t care.

 

“What do you mean, what the hell?”

 

“You waited almost _two weeks_ to tell me dad was dead?”

 

Lucille rolls her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Michael. Do we _really_ have to get into all of this _now_?”

 

“Uh, yeah, Mom, I think we do.”

 

“Please, Michael, it’s a _funeral_ -”

 

“I deserve an explanation!” He said that a little louder than he meant to, so he lowers his voice. “Please, Mother? Just tell me _why_.”

 

“Well, fine, if you really must know.” She pauses to take another sip of her drink. “I honestly thought you’d already heard about it, Michael. It was all over the news.”

 

“In Newport Beach, maybe, but not in Phoenix!”

 

“I’ve already said ‘my bad.’ I don’t know what more you could possibly want from me.” She _had_ said that, true, but it was months earlier at Buster’s murder trial, and it was in reference to something else entirely. Michael realizes this is probably the closest thing to an apology he’ll ever get, though, so he accepts it.

 

Lucille continues. “Besides, I called you, didn’t I? I wasn’t going to let you miss your father’s funeral.”

 

“Well, thanks, I guess. That was… _considerate_ of you.” He manages a slight smile, and his mother smiles back. “I do have one more question for you, though.”

 

“Oh, what now?” she asks, rolling her eyes again.

 

“You wouldn’t happen to know who-” he subtly gestures to the mysterious figure at the end of the pew “- _that_ is, would you?”

 

Lucille glances in that direction, then shakes her head. “No idea. Honestly, Michael, you expect me to be able to keep track of every single weirdo that shows up to a _public_ funeral?”

 

“Well, no, Mom. That would be ridiculous. I just thought, you know, since they’re sitting in the _family_ section, maybe-”

 

“It’s not Maeby. She’s right there.”

 

“No, I know _that_ , Mom. I meant-”

 

“Who cares, Michael? Probably just can’t read. I doubt they even speak English. I mean, _look_ at those _eyes_ -”

 

“Okay, Mom. Got it.” This was very quickly veering into racist territory. But, now that Michael’s looking closer, it’s definitely someone of East Asian descent. He glances back up at the slideshow, not wanting to be caught staring. He can’t help but notice how it’s still on pictures from George Sr’s childhood.

 

He taps on his mother’s shoulder a second time. “Hate to bother you again, but I have to ask. How long is this slideshow, exactly?”

 

“Oh, just a couple hours.”

 

“A couple _hours_?”

 

“You’re not required to watch the entire thing! There’s refreshments, and a bar. Go mingle, or whatever. Just make sure you get back in time to do the eulogy.”

 

Michael sighs. “ _I’m_ doing the eulogy?”

 

“Well, who else? Oscar’s dead. I’m deep in mourning. We can’t have Buster do it. I mean, _look_ at his _condition_. Gob is an idiot, and Lindsay isn’t even a biological child. Plus, if I even _mention_ that there’s a eulogy in front of her, you-know-who will overhear and volunteer to deliver it himself, and we _cannot_ have that.”

 

His mother does have a point there. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

 

“Perfect. I’ll be at the bar,” she replies, immediately standing up and heading for the reception area.

 

Michael watches her leave, trying to decide which word he wants to use to describe the way she’s acting. Hypocritical, maybe? Something about putting together a two-hour-long slideshow and not even staying to watch it is just so… He shakes his head. _Typical_. Yeah, that’s it. That’s the word he’s looking for. He sighs for what must be the ninetieth time and then sneaks another peek at the mysterious stranger at the end of the pew. This time, though, he gets caught looking. He immediately returns his eyes to the slideshow, but his mind is elsewhere.

 

There’s definitely something _familiar_ about those eyes. Michael tries to remember who all he knows that’s Asian. The only name that comes to mind is P-Hound – _man, was that guy a pain in the ass_ – but P-Hound wears glasses, and this person isn’t. He thinks of the Chinese investors next – could it be that they’ve realized Fakeblock was a scam and come back to exact their revenge? That’s definitely within the realm of possibility, but this person, from what little he can see of them, looks way too young to be an investor. _Of course_ , he thinks to himself, _looks don’t mean much, especially considering – wait, is that racist_?

 

He spends the next several minutes trying to decide if that’s racist or not. He’s pretty sure it isn’t, but he decides to get George Michael’s opinion just to be safe. However, when he turns to ask the question, George Michael is nowhere to be found.

 

In fact, George Michael is currently standing by one of the refreshments tables, a plate in his hand. He didn’t have time to eat breakfast today, and he’s hungry. He’s also not particularly interested in sitting through a two-hour slideshow about his dead grandfather. Unfortunately, the array of food spread before him was clearly designed to be more of a mid-afternoon snack than a morning meal, and the breakfast-esque options are essentially nonexistent. He decides to just go for the coconut shrimp, because why the hell not. As he loads up his plate, he notices a platter of coffin-shaped cookies, the type one might serve at Halloween.

 

“What the hell?” he says, much louder than he meant to, seeing as he didn’t mean to say it at all. “Why would anyone have that at a funeral?”

 

“I just thought it’d be funny,” says a voice from the other side of the table. George Michael looks up to see his cousin standing across from him, a half-eaten coffin cookie in her hand. “Yours is probably the best reaction I’ve gotten so far, though, which is a bit of a letdown. Hey, George Michael.”

 

“Hey, Maeby. Yeah, I wouldn’t give up yet if I were you, though. I think most people are still watching the slideshow.”

 

“Right? I’d love to see their faces when they realize that it’s _two entire hours_ long.”

 

“You knew about that?”

 

“It was my idea.” She shrugs, then pops the remainder of the cookie into her mouth. “Gangie should _not_ have let me be in charge of funeral planning.”

 

“Yeah, she really shouldn’t have,” George Michael agrees. Maeby shrugs again, smirking. It suddenly hits George Michael that he and his cousin are the only two people in the room. He awkwardly takes a bite of one of his shrimp. For a minute or so there’s nothing but mildly uncomfortable silence.

 

Maeby is the one to break it. “George Michael, there’s something I should probably tell you.”

 

“What? Is it about the kiss?” The words come out before he can stop them, and he immediately regrets opening his mouth. “Because, I mean, I really liked it. I don’t know if you liked it too, but if you did, it’s just that – we’re cousins, you know? We’re blood relatives. It’s wrong. But, I don’t know, it kind of felt right, and if you felt like that too then maybe I’d be willing to – you know, we can’t tell anyone, obviously, but, I mean, if you wanted to – _only_ if you wanted to, I mean-”

 

“George Michael-” Maeby starts.

 

“Or we can just forget about it! Just pretend it never happened, you know? I mean, as far as I’m concerned, it _didn’t_ happen, because-”

 

“ _George Michael_ -”

 

“I mean, it’s not like we _did_ anything. We just made out, and we’re _cousins_ – it’s so _wrong_ -”

 

“George Michael!” She claps her hands in his face this time, trying to snap him out of it. Several additional seconds of awkward silence ensue before she continues. “It’s not about the kiss. The kiss was great. Except for the whole, you know, being biologically related thing.”

 

“Right.” He looks at the floor, the ceiling, the table, his plate of coconut shrimp, everywhere but Maeby, hoping to will away the awkwardness.

 

“It’s just that… well, I’m seeing someone now.”

 

George Michael nearly drops his plate. “Like, in a romantic way?”

 

“Yeah, you could say that.”

 

“In a se-” George Michael stops himself, realizing he doesn’t actually want to know the answer to that one.

 

“Yeah, George Michael. That too.”

 

“Oh, okay.” He’s definitely blushing now, not that he wasn’t before.

 

“And I don’t want you to get upset when I tell you who it is, okay? It’s someone I recently reconnected with, and-”

 

“Why would I get upset?” George Michael asks, then a disturbing thought occurs to him. “Hang on – it’s not Steve Holt, is it? Because he’s your cousin too!”

 

“No, George Michael. God, no. It’s not Steve Holt.” She cringes a little at the very idea. “That guy peaked in high school.”

 

“Okay, good,” he says. “Just making sure.”

 

“Right.” She’s staring at him now. He can’t read her expression.

 

“So who is it? Who is this guy?”

 

“Yeah, it’s, uh… not exactly a _guy_.” She shifts her weight to her other foot, eyes staring down at the ground.

 

“ _Huh_?”

 

Maeby looks up, and, deciding she might as well just say it, takes a deep breath. “It’s Rebel. Rebel Alley.”

 

“Maeby. You’re dating my ex-girlfriend?”

 

“Yeah. But please don’t get upset, because I _swear_ , I didn’t-”

 

George Michael feels like he just got off one of those amusement park rides, the ones that simulate a 20-story drop. He’s never actually been on one, but he assumes it feels something like this. And why even bother ever going on one now, when he’s just had the feeling recreated so perfectly? Not to mention, this way there’s no chance of accidentally dying – except, perhaps, of embarrassment. “So you’re a lesbian?”

 

“…plan for this to happen,” Maeby finishes, mildly irritated at the interruption. “No, George Michael. I’m bi.”

 

“How – since when?” he asks dumbly.

 

“Well, you know when we did that whole wall unveiling thing for Fakeblock, and Uncle Gob did that stupid sexuality switch illusion, and in part of it Uncle Buster said the words ‘maybe bisexual’? Something just kind of clicked for me then.”

 

“Wait, really?”

 

“No, stupid. I’ve always known.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Maeby laughs, and George Michael laughs a little too. He still has a lot of questions, though, and one of them is out of his mouth before he can stop himself. “How come you never told me?”

 

Maeby stops laughing. “I mean, I never really told _anyone_. Partly because no one ever asked, and partly because, well – it’s just, I spent so much time trying to get my parents to notice me, and I guess I was scared that if they ever found out, it would be the one thing that finally got them to pay attention. But I didn’t want it to happen like that, you know? I didn’t want them to think it was some rebellion when it’s just who I am.” She’s just staring off to the side now, an uncertain expression on her face.

 

“ _Oh_.” George Michael has never heard his cousin sound so open, so _vulnerable_. He’s not quite sure how to respond. “I – I’m sorry, Maeby. I had no idea.”

 

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” The smile is back, and she’s looking him in the eye again, which is a good sign. “We’re doing a lot better now. My mom and I are, anyway. Dad’s kind of a mixed bag. He’s trying, though. At least, I _think_ he is. It’s really hard to tell with that guy.”

 

“Oh. Well, cool. I mean, that’s good for you. I’m happy for you.”

 

“Thanks, George Michael.” She pauses, adjusting the fabric of her dress, then looks back up at him. “So, you probably want to know how I ended up with Rebel, huh?”

 

“Yeah, I kinda do,” he admits.

 

“It’s actually a pretty funny story. You know how the wall unveiling scheme had me dressing up as her?”

 

George Michael nods.

 

“So, yeah. I was bored a few days later, and I started thinking, like, ‘Okay, if I can fool the Chinese into thinking I’m Rebel Alley, who else can I con?’ And I decided, like, just for the hell of it, why not go out to a bar with that wig on and pretend I’m her? So I end up tricking a bunch of random guys into giving me free drinks – god, men are even stupider when they’re drunk – but I started getting bored of that too, so I was just about to leave when I bumped into – guess who?”

 

“The real Rebel Alley?”

 

Maeby nods. “Bingo. And she _recognized_ me, so-”

 

-

 

“Maeby?” a voice asked. “Maeby Funke?”

 

“Nope, you’re mistaken,” Maeby replied as she turned around. “I’m – Rebel Alley?”

 

It had started out as a statement, yes, but once she’d spun around to face the woman whose identity she was “borrowing” it was definitely a genuine question. The neon lights behind the bar bathed them both in flashes of rainbow, and Rebel was smiling wide.

 

“Hey! I haven’t seen you since your funeral,” she said, squeezing Maeby into a hug.

 

“Oh, yeah, that stupid awards show.”

 

“What’d you do to your hair?”

 

“Well, truthfully – no, I’ll just tell you the truth. It’s a wig.” She reached up, pulling it off to prove her point.

 

“Oh, cool. You could totally pull off red hair, though,” Rebel said as Maeby shoved the wig into her purse.

 

“Thanks, I guess.”

 

“No, it’s definitely a compliment. Not a lot of people can. I think it’s the freckles. You’d make a cute redhead.”

 

Maeby smiled, then sat back down in her barstool and motioned to the empty spot next to her. “Buy me a drink?”

 

This hadn’t been part of the plan, but hey, free drinks are free drinks. And if going out dressed as Rebel Alley to con people into buying her drinks somehow resulted in the actual Rebel Alley buying her a drink – well, she wasn’t complaining. Win-win. Of course, that would all depend on how Rebel answered the question.

 

“Sure, why not? Let’s catch up.”

 

Rebel sat down beside her and waved over the bartender. They both ordered, then spent a few minutes idly chatting while they waited for their drinks to be made. “So,” Rebel said eventually, taking a sip of hers, “what the hell happened with the whole Fakeblock thing?”

 

“Oh, _man_ ,” Maeby said, swallowing. “Complete _disaster_.”

 

“Tell me _everything_.”

 

“Okay, so, first of all: George Maharis? Total _fraud_.” Maeby wasn’t really sure why she was saying all of this, especially to Rebel of all people, but ranting was cathartic and Rebel seemed genuinely interested, so why not?

 

“Ugh, _talk_ about people who can’t pull off red hair.”

 

“Right? And that’s not the only thing he couldn’t pull off. Fakeblock-” she paused for dramatic effect, savoring the fact that she had Rebel’s full attention “-is a woodblock app.”

 

“What? Are you _serious_?”

 

“Yeah. No privacy, and no anti-piracy. The whole thing was a scam. Just this-” she tapped rhythmically on the side of her glass with a nearby spoon several times “-forever, until you die.”

 

“Jesus.”

 

“Surprised?”

 

“I mean, yeah. But there was definitely something off about the guy. Now I’m _glad_ he never let me buy the company.”

 

“Yeah, you really dodged a bullet there. The whole thing’s worthless. It’s a total vortex. It vacuums in money and then spits out nothing. Like a black hole.”

 

“Is that what black holes do?” Rebel asked. Maeby shrugged.

 

“I don’t know. I’m not a nerd. It might be.”

 

For a few moments neither of them spoke, choosing instead to sip at their drinks. Maeby was feeling a little more lightheaded than she should’ve been, given the Bluths’ infamously high tolerance for alcohol, but it wasn’t in the drunk type of way that weighs you down. It was more the opposite, like floating on a cloud.

 

“Your eyes are like black holes,” Rebel said, hiccuping a little. She was tipsy, but not drunk.

 

“Huh?” Maeby was also tipsy, but not so much so that the statement confused her. Mostly she just wanted to hear it again.

 

“They’re sucking me in,” Rebel replied, twirling her hair. “I could get lost in them.”

 

“Oh?” Maeby leaned in closer. She’d never really considered Rebel a friend, even when they’d worked together, but she’d also never bothered getting to know her. Or anyone, really. She preferred to keep a safe distance. That made it a lot easier to do the whole heart-switch thing.

 

But something had changed recently. She’d started opening up a little, albeit unintentionally, during the month or so she’d spent in Mexico. Once she’d come back to Newport Beach, though, it’d been pretty easy to slip back into that same old routine of not caring. And then her mother had sat her down, and, through real tears, apologized for all the years she’d let go by. “ _I know there’s no way I can possibly make up for it_ ,” Lindsay had said, “ _but_ _is there any way_ _you’_ _d_ _be willing to let me try_?” Maeby had nodded, and then for hours they’d just sat there and talked. They’d gone to a spa and gotten full-body massages, the tension evaporating along with the steam as Lindsay got to know the daughter she’d never fully appreciated.

 

It’d been nice, and this was nice too. Maeby wasn’t entirely sure how the conversation had gone from trash-talking George Maharis to overt flirtations, but she wasn’t complaining. Rebel leaned in too, her face mere inches from Maeby’s.

 

“So,” she said slyly, “You gonna kiss me, or what?”

 

-

 

“And, you know, it’s not super serious or anything,” she says to George Michael. She’d left out the part where they’d bonded over insulting him. “We’re just kind of having fun with it. Seeing where things go. It’s perfect. And, you know, I just don’t want to ruin it by fooling around with my cousin.”

 

“Right,” says George Michael. He can certainly understand that. And that’d definitely been one issue he’d had there, keeping things casual. He’s the type of person who likes to commit all the way, and Rebel isn’t. Neither is Maeby. He can totally see how they’d go well together. “I’m happy for you,” he says again, and he means it.

 

“Thanks,” Maeby responds, smiling.

 

“So… is Rebel here?” George Michael asks. He’s hoping she’ll say no, because he has no idea how to properly react to the fact that his ex-girlfriend is now dating his cousin, especially considering his history with both women and that he previously had no idea either one of them was even bisexual.

 

“Nope,” Maeby answers, a hint of glumness in her voice. “She’s filming some movie in New York this week. I promised her I’d fill her in on how it goes, though, in case anything crazy happens.”

 

“Oh,” George Michael says, trying not to sound relieved. “Well, hopefully nothing crazy will happen. Or, I mean, hopefully it will, if you want it to. I mean, this is a Bluth family event, so who knows. Anything’s possible.”

 

“That’s what I’m counting on,” Maeby says back, grinning. Her expression suddenly changes, and even George Michael realizes it’s not because of anything he’s said. “Well, I should probably go. See ya.”

 

He’s about to ask why she’s leaving, but a voice behind him answers that question even before he gets the chance to ask it. “George Michael!” his father calls out.

 

“Yeah, Dad?”

 

“Where have you been, son? I’ve been looking all over for you.” Michael is right next to him now, and the look he’s got on his face is a mixture of concern and… something else.

 

“I’ve just been right here, Dad. I was getting some food.” George Michael points to his plate, and his father nods.

 

“Wish I’d known that before I checked the bathroom. Let me tell you something, George Michael, I would _not_ go in there anytime soon if I were you,” Michael says, his face still contorted.

 

“Why? Does it smell bad, or?”

 

“No, it smells fine. For a bathroom, anyway.”

 

“Then what-”

 

“Your uncle was in there with his… well… he _claims_ they’re not dating, but after what I walked in on just now…” Michael shakes his head, shuddering at the memory.

 

George Michael nods. He doesn’t need to ask which uncle, and he _definitely_ doesn’t want to know what his father walked in on.

 

Michael continues, “I mean, you’d think they’d at least have the decency to do that in a _stall_ , but no, _apparently_ that’s too much to ask. Side note, if you do go in there, don’t touch the counter. Or at least disinfect it first.”

 

“Uh, okay,” George Michael says. “I’ll be sure to, uh, keep that in mind.” He really wants to change the subject now, before his father reveals any more details. “So why were you looking for me? What did you need, I mean?”

 

Michael facepalms in frustration. “Crap! There was something important I needed to ask you, and now it’s completely slipped my mind. Hang on. It’s right at the tip of my tongue...” He looks up at the ceiling, racking his brain. George Michael takes a nervous glance around the room. More people are filtering in from the chapel, apparently having come to the collective realization that the memorial slideshow won’t be ending anytime soon.

 

“Aha! I got it!” Michael shouts triumphantly. “This is what I needed your opinion on. Is it racist to say it’s impossible to tell how old Asians are?”

 

“Um,” George Michael responds, taken aback. He’s not sure what, exactly, he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t _that_. Where the hell did that even come from? Several people are staring at the two of them now, which only increases his level of discomfort. Michael, however, seems to have taken that “um” as an actual answer, and, apparently, it was the one he was hoping for.

 

“Didn’t think so! Thank you, son. You’ve been very helpful.” He pats George Michael on the head almost patronizingly, then turns and heads back into the chapel. George Michael just stares as his father walks away, still extremely confused by the entire encounter.

 

“You’re… welcome?” He manages eventually. Michael doesn’t hear him, having already made it back to his seat.

 

Of course, now that Michael’s back, so are Gob and Tony, both looking slightly disheveled and both grinning like idiots. Not only that, but the rest of the family seems to be missing. Michael tries not to make eye contact as he sits down, ignoring the hushed giggling that starts up when they notice him. Gob taps him on the shoulder and Michael jumps nearly a foot into the air.

 

“Jesus _Christ_ , Gob!” he half-whispers, half-shouts. “ _At least_ tell me you washed your hands after!”

 

“Of _course_ we did, Mike. I just wanted to apologize for the _um_ – the _uh_ – you know-” He can’t seem to keep a straight face. _Of course_ , Michael reminds himself, _this is Gob. He’s never had a ‘straight’ face in his life_.

 

“The X-rated magic show you saw in the men’s room,” Tony Wonder says. He’s also trying(and failing) very hard not to laugh. It occurs to Michael that these are the first words Tony’s ever spoken to him.

 

“Same!” Gob says, and they high five each other. All Michael can do is facepalm, using both hands, for an extended period of time. His brother and Tony are still snickering almost hysterically. Various funeral-goers are gazing on in disapproval.

 

Eventually Michael raises his head. “Might I remind you, Gob,” he says, exasperated beyond belief, “that we are currently in the middle of _our father’s funeral_?”

 

For some reason, this just makes Gob laugh even harder. There are tears flowing down his face, and he can barely get out his next words. “He’d be so _mad_!”

 

“Okay,” Michael says. “I’m going somewhere else now.” He thinks there’s a very strong chance that his brother is right on the edge of a mental breakdown, and he’s absolutely _not_ in the mood to stick around and watch it play out.

 

In actuality, Gob is fine. He’s laughing so hard he can barely breathe, but other than that he’s having the time of his life. He’s still not convinced that George Sr is dead, and he would most definitely be a lot less okay if they had an actual body. He doesn’t want to dwell on the possibility that his father is actually gone forever – and maybe it’s just denial, like _Michael_ said, but _Michael_ wouldn’t know – but the fact that there isn’t a body makes it a whole lot easier to just shrug off the whole situation like it’s nothing.

 

Either way, though, something about not having George Sr around to constantly remind him what a disappointment he is has been oddly freeing. And it _probably_ doesn’t hurt that he’s got the love of his life right there laughing beside him.

 

-

 

“Sir,” the police officer said for the second time, “I’m going to have to ask you to hand over the mask.”

 

Gob just stared at him, extremely confused.

 

“Sir, it’s evidence now. A murder has been committed, and you’re required by law to hand it over.”

 

“But I didn’t – Buster said this was a _mannequin_ -”

 

“Just take it from him,” said the other cop, who was clearly getting bored. The first officer reached out and swiped the mask from Gob’s hand. Gob didn’t bother trying to fight it. Now that he knew it was an _actual dead body_ that the mask had been on, he suddenly didn’t want it anymore. He also felt a little sick to his stomach. And it wasn’t like _this_ Gob mask had any sentimental value. It wasn’t the one from his night with Tony. That one had mysteriously disappeared when he’d woken up the next morning, and he was hoping that Tony had taken it. Something to remember him by – even though Tony _claimed_ he didn’t remember it at all.

 

“You’re free to go, sir,” said the cop who’d taken the mask. Gob stared at him blankly, then shrugged and stepped off the platform. He started towards the model home, because now he _really_ wanted to wash his hands, since he’d just touched, again, _an actual dead body_. He could hear the cops still conversing behind him, something about Buster disappearing before they could cuff him, something else about putting out a warrant. He wasn’t really paying attention to that. Instead, he was thinking about Tony Wonder, how they’d just high-fived and now he had to wash his hands already because he touched that stupid dead body right after. Why couldn’t Buster have just used a _mannequin_ like he _asked_?

 

He wasn’t really all that surprised to find out that Buster had killed Lucille Austero. In fact, he wasn’t surprised at all. Like he’d told Kitty, he’d always thought it was the robot hand. Ugh, _Kitty_. That wasn’t a pleasant thought. Suddenly he felt _extremely_ unwell. He nearly pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle a gag, then, remembering where his hands had been just now, quickly thought better of it. He managed to regain his composure long enough to make it to the model home, where he washed his hands five times and still didn’t feel clean. He decided he needed to take a shower, and also to burn the clothes he’d been wearing. But he really didn’t want to do that, because he _loved_ that outfit. Instead he settled for leaving them in a heap on the bathroom floor, resolving to deal with it later.

 

The first thing he wanted to do after the shower was call Tony, but he couldn’t just _do_ that. He didn’t want to sound _desperate_. And if Tony was going to be with Sally, like he’d said, then Gob could be with Joni, like _he’d_ said. The only problem was – and yes, in Gob’s mind, this was the sole issue with this plan – she wasn’t answering her phone. He spent at least ten minutes pacing before he decided to drive down to the station and talk to her in person. He knew she’d be there; it was just about time for the evening news.

 

Sure enough, there she was, outside smoking a cigarette during commercial break. Gob approached her from behind, afraid she’d go back inside if she saw him coming. “Hey, Beard,” he said when he was right beside her.

 

Joni sighed. “Hello, Gob,” she replied, without turning around.

 

“I brought you something,” he said, attempting to pull a bouquet of flowers from his sleeve. He’d worn the wrong suit, though, so pennies spilled out instead.

 

“ _Jesus_ , Gob,” she said, finally turning to face him. “We both know damn well I don’t work for pennies!”

 

“It was supposed to be flowers,” he said sheepishly, embarrassed that something had already gone wrong.

 

Joni rolled her eyes. “Why are you here?”

 

“To proclaim my love for you?” Even he didn’t sound like he believed it.

 

“That’s great, Gob. I’m not interested, though.”

 

“What? _Come on_!” He clearly hadn’t been expecting that. Joni nodded her head, amused by just how out of touch this man was with reality.

 

“Yeah, sorry, but I’ve been kind of looking to distance myself from the Beard name.”

 

“Well, then that’s perfect, because my last name is Bluth!”

 

Joni laughed. “Are you proposing to me?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“No. No, you aren’t, honey. Quit kidding yourself, Gob. You are the gayest man I’ve ever met.”

 

“I – _what_ – should – No, I’m _not_! I’m – I’m _straight_ , I swear!”

 

“Uh huh.” It was obvious Joni didn’t believe him in the slightest. She started to unbutton her blouse and Gob visibly recoiled. “That’s what I thought, sweetheart.”

 

“No, I-”

 

Gob thought back to the last near-sexual encounter he’d had with a woman. It’d been Kitty, in the LEM. He’d just gotten off the phone with Tony and he’d felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest. “How much of that did you hear?” he’d asked, the anxiety audible in his voice. “Pretty much the whole thing,” Kitty had replied, shrugging like it was no big deal. “But I know what’ll make you feel better. Say hello… to _these_.” And then she’d lifted up her shirt – and Gob wasn’t sure if it was the repulsive sight of her bare chest, or that gut-punch of a phone call, or some other third thing, but suddenly he was overwhelmed by the most intense nausea he’d ever experienced in his life – and the next thing he knew, his half-digested lunch was splattered across the floor of the LEM and Kitty was glaring at him in disgust as he pressed a shaking hand to his mouth. “Okay, I get it,” she’d said, pulling her shirt back down. “This isn’t happening.” And then she’d hit that button and the door had popped back open – had she known that was there the entire time? _Had she planned this whole thing on purpose_? And then she’d climbed back down the ladder and he’d followed after her, distraught and on the verge of tears, practically _begging_ her to believe he wasn’t gay.

 

“I’m straight,” he insisted to Joni. “You just have weird boobs.”

 

“Okay, Gob.” She rolled her eyes again and took another drag of her cigarette. He remembered something else, something that had happened when he tried to do conversion therapy.

 

“Maybe if you got one of those Tony Wonder necklaces-”

 

Joni cut him off. “ _Tony Wonder necklaces_?” she asked, completely baffled.

 

“You know, with the little T on them?”

 

She nearly burst out laughing. “You mean like a _cross_?”

 

“Or like, over, or on top of, or whatever. You could get a really big one so I can’t see them at all. That’d be perfect.”

 

“You’re gay, Gob,” she said again.

 

“I’m straight!” he repeated, a broken record of a broken man.

 

“No, you aren’t. Just stop it, honey. I’ve seen your sex tape.”

 

Gob flushed bright red. Somehow he’d managed to forget that a) he’d made a sex tape with Tony Wonder, b) John Beard was currently in possession of said sex tape, and c) Joni and John used to be married – all of which were fairly important information.

 

Joni nodded, her eyebrows raised. “Yeah. My ex-husband gets drunk and emails it to me almost every night. I won’t lie, it’s kind of hot.”

 

He opened and closed his mouth several times, trying and failing to form words. An intern poked her head out of the building and motioned to Joni that she was needed on set. “Great talk,” she said, patting Gob on the back. She tossed her cigarette on the ground, stamped it out with her heel, and casually walked away.

 

Gob just stood there, speechless and too embarrassed to move, for several minutes.

 

“Sh – _should_ -” he managed to stutter eventually. Joni was right, and he knew it. And now she was back inside, probably announcing the weather for next week, and he was standing there alone, contemplating begging Tobias or someone to _please_ go get him some more forget-me-nows – which was an absolute _last resort_ , and the fact that he was considering it so seriously only made him even more ashamed – when he heard the opening chords of “Getaway” by Mark Cherry.

 

“Hello?” he answered, not checking the caller ID first.

 

“Hey, Gobie!” That was Tony Wonder, and there was warmth in his voice. Gob instantly perked up.

 

“Tony!”

 

“Yeah, it’s me.” He chuckled. “You doing anything right now?”

 

“Nothing important, why do you ask?”

 

“You wanna come over to my place, do some stuff with our hands?”

 

“ _Yes_!” Gob practically screamed. He was _completely_ losing his cool, but he was too happy to care.

 

“Cool. See you in a few.”

 

Tony hung up, and Gob was in his car and on the highway in record time. He thought about stopping to get something for Tony, maybe some actual flowers or some red wine or something like that, but Tony hadn’t told him to bring anything – and besides, this was _just hands_. It wasn’t a date, so he shouldn’t feel bad about showing up empty-handed. He was so excited he accidentally rang the doorbell twice. Tony had been standing right there on the other side waiting for him, but he acted like he hadn’t been.

 

“Come on in,” he said, and Gob did. The instant the door closed behind them Tony took Gob’s hands in his own. They just stood there like that, staring into each other’s eyes, for at least a minute. Gob could no longer remember why he’d been so upset before the phone call. His heart was getting hard, and so was he. He shuffled his feet a bit, trying to conceal it.

 

“I-” both men started to say at the same time, then laughed. “Same!”

 

Then Tony pulled Gob downward, not forcefully, but with enough strength to catch him off guard. He stumbled a little, but Tony caught him, and suddenly his mouth was on Tony’s mouth and they were kissing each other passionately, and then they were on the couch and their hands were all over each other’s bodies, completely caught up in the moment. It had been far, _far_ too long since they’d been alone together.

 

“So,” Tony asked several rounds later, when they were both naked in his bed(they’d gone way, _way_ beyond just hands), “did you get back together with Joni?”

 

Gob decided to tell the truth for once. Something about the way his head was resting on Tony’s chest made him feel like he didn’t have to lie anymore. “No. We’re… not a good match.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“What about you? Did you make it official with Sally Sitwell?”

 

Tony, too, was feeling uncharacteristically honest. He ran his fingers through Gob’s hair. “Nah. She actually… she dumped me. Back when I was still in Branson. Said she’d lost interest in me a while ago. But we’re friends still. She really is putting me in charge of Sitwell Construction.”

 

“Oh.”

 

They laid there in silence for several minutes, just cuddled up together.

 

“Gobie?” Tony said softly, unsure if Gob was still awake. His eyes had been closed, but they opened immediately at the sound of Tony’s voice.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I didn’t forget Cinco. I just thought you should know that.”

 

“Same,” Gob said, because he couldn’t think of how else to reply.

 

“I just _said_ I did, because I thought _you_ did, since you said you were going to, and I wanted to see you again, but then you never called me back.”

 

Gob just looked up at him then, not saying anything. Tony wasn’t sure what emotion he saw in those eyes, so he continued.

 

“And then that whole thing happened with the gay mafia, and they were already forcing me to fake die for being a-” he paused to do the W air quotes Gob thought were so cool “-‘fake gay’, so it wasn’t like I could just admit we’d been together at that point, because that would’ve just complicated shit even more.”

 

Tony was just rambling now. Gob was still staring up at him, but he definitely didn’t look upset.

 

“Same,” Gob said again, smiling his crooked smile, and even though it made no sense, Tony understood.

 

-

 

“They did _what_?” Lucille asks. She’s on what must be her fifth vodka tonic.

 

“I really don’t want to say it again, Mom,” Michael replies. “I know you heard me the first three times.”

 

“At his own father’s funeral,” Lucille says. She laughs, and then quickly coughs to cover it up. “ _Disgusting_.”

 

Michael nods, pretending he doesn’t notice the fake cough. For some reason he’d thought forcing the image on other people would make it go away faster, but so far it’s only becoming even more vivid. And why does everybody else seem to think it’s so _funny_? He decides to have a drink.

 

It’s as if Lucille can read his thoughts. “Careful there, Michael. I need you clear-headed for the eulogy.”

 

“Couldn’t agree more, Mother,” he says. “That’s why I’m _trying_ to clear my head.”

 

He makes his way over to the bar and orders something strong.

 

“Michael!” his brother-in-law says from behind him. “I see you’ve got quite a stiffy.”

 

“Hello to you too, Tobias,” he replies, turning around.

 

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Tobias says. “I’m just slipping in to get drinks for my wife and our congresswoman.”

 

“Uh huh, great.” Michael downs the entirety of his own drink and signals the bartender for another. _Then_ it hits him. “Wait, _congresswoman_? Is Sally Sitwell here?”

 

“Uh, duh- _doy_ ,” Tobias answers, rolling his eyes like Michael’s just asked the most ridiculous question in the history of the world. “And she seems to be under the mistaken impression that _yours truly_ is a waiter. Of course, as an _actor_ I’m always on the prowl for meaty new parts to really _thrust_ myself into, so I felt _not_ the need to correct her.”

 

Michael’s fairly certain that Sally Sitwell is well aware of who Tobias is, but he chooses not to point that out. It’s obviously a ploy to keep him away from her, and he’s starting to think he could use one of those himself right about now.

 

Tobias, meanwhile, is still going on and on about acting. “It always just feels so _good_ to be able to pull one out of my arse-”

 

“Tobias, please-”

 

“- _nal_ of talent. You didn’t let me finish, Michael! _Arsenal of talent_! You, sir, have a _filthy_ mind!” He slaps Michael’s ass enthusiastically before walking away with his tray of drinks. Michael rolls his eyes back so dramatically that his entire head tilts back as well, and for a moment or two he just stands there staring at the ceiling.

 

24 hours ago he was on his way _away_ from Phoenix, the city he’d romanticized for much of his adult life. He tries to think about where he’d be right now if he _hadn’t_ turned around and come back. Texas, probably? It wouldn’t take _that_ long to drive across New Mexico, especially if he and George Michael took turns behind the wheel. He can’t decide if Texas would be better or worse than here, and that’s not a good sign. He decides he must’ve made the right decision returning to Newport Beach, and _not_ just to make himself feel better. Of course, in the less-than-a-day since he’s been back, there’s already been one hospital trip, one completely trashed camper, one huge drunken altercation, one commitment he’s found himself forced into by his mother, and far too much petty bickering to keep track of, not to mention the explicit encounter he’d had the misfortune of witnessing in the bathroom earlier. _And_ his father’s dead. Can’t forget about that.

 

He finishes his second drink and decides he needs a third. He also decides to take it outside, away from his mother’s judgmental eye and his brother-in-law’s innuendos. As it turns out, though, Michael’s not the only Bluth with that idea, although he is the only one with a drink in his hand.

 

“Just one sip! _Please_! I _promise_ I won’t do anything!”

 

Michael turns around to see his younger brother, currently in a disagreement with the man he’s been chained to. Warden Gentles is holding a juice box in his right hand, shaking his head almost violently as he sips from it. Buster is swatting at it with his left stump, his right hand unable to reach while cuffed to Gentles’ left, which is being held out deliberately as far away as it’ll stretch.

 

“Buster, buddy, what the _hell_ is going on?” Michael asks. The whole scene looks ridiculous; his brother’s at least six inches taller and 40 years younger than the warden and would be able to overpower him easily were he not missing one hand and restrained at the other. It’s actually pretty comical to watch, except that it’s happening right at the top of a flight of stone stairs and Michael has no interest in witnessing a murder-suicide at his father’s funeral.

 

Buster looks up. “Oh, hey brother,” he says calmly, then instantly switches his demeanor, pointing his stump at the warden in the most accusatory fashion he can manage. “ _He_ is _mocking_ me!”

 

“Buster, _Buster_ , please,” Warden Gentles says, having finished the juice box. “I meant no hard feelings. I was merely in the mood for some delicious juice.”

 

“And I call _bull_ -S on that, old man!” Buster yells, indignant. He stomps his foot for emphasis. This is his _one_ day of freedom, and he can’t even spend it drinking juice(the fact that juice is the reason he’s behind bars is, in this moment, irrelevant). He’d honestly rather have just stayed in prison – his father/uncle’s funeral isn’t particularly important to him( _and is the guy even really dead? Gob says he isn’t, and they don’t have a body, so Buster’s inclined to believe him. Plus, George Sr isn’t even his father. Oscar’s his father. Why aren’t they having a funeral for Oscar?_ ), seeing as the one parent he cares about is still alive and well.

 

Michael finds himself agreeing with that statement. It might’ve been believable if the warden’s age was still in the single digits, but as it is, it’s closer to the triples. He wants to remain neutral, though, so he doesn’t say that out loud.

 

“I’m sure this whole thing is just a misunderstanding,” he says instead. Warden Gentles nods, but Buster doesn’t seem convinced. “How about this: if you get another one, let him have a sip. Surely _one single sip_ won’t do any damage?”

 

Buster and the warden both think on that for a second, then shrug and nod in agreement. Michael breathes a sigh of relief. _Crisis averted_ , he thinks to himself.

 

“I apologize, Michael,” Buster says. “It’s just bad enough with _Annyong_ in there drinking juice right in my face, mocking me with his little-”

 

Of _course_ , Michael realizes. _That’s_ who that mysterious stranger is. Of course, that only raises more questions. Why has his long-lost adopted Korean brother, who once vowed to destroy the family and who Michael hasn’t seen since that boat party nearly a decade ago, suddenly decided to make a reappearance? Whatever the reason, it can’t be anything good. Neither can what Buster is currently saying.

 

“I wish he’d come out here so I could push _him_ down the sta-”

 

“ _Buster_ ,” Michael says warningly. Warden Gentles is staring, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Buster quickly cuts himself off.

 

“I’m joking. _Obviously_!” Buster says unconvincingly, smiling what he hopes is an innocent smile. It’s the same look he had on his face when Lucille 2’s body was pulled out of the wall, though, so it doesn’t exactly leave the best impression.

 

“Right. Let’s, uh, go ahead and make our way back inside now,” Michael says, motioning towards the door. Fortunately, Buster listens to him, heading back inside along with the warden. Michael remains outside for another minute, just drinking and watching the cars go by. Eventually, though, he decides he should probably go warn his mother about Annyong. That, and his glass is empty.

 

When he gets back to the bar, however, Lucille isn’t there. He goes ahead and orders himself a refill, and then another. After five drinks, plus the one he now has in his hand, he’s finally starting to feel the effects of the alcohol. Suddenly, he’s in the mood to have a chat with a random stranger.

 

“Hey, guy,” Michael says, approaching the nearest person. “Don’t you think it’s a little weird how they’ve got a bar in a church?”

 

“Oh, this is just temporary,” the man replies without looking up. “Normally this room is used for bible study meetings, but apparently these days you can’t have a _funeral_ without _alcohol_.”

 

“Huh. _Religion_ , am I right?”

 

The man looks up then and realizes who he’s talking to. “Oh, hello, Michael.”

 

“Hey, I know you,” Michael says. “Didn’t you hit me in the face once?”

 

Pastor Veal sighs. “I believe I may have. In my defense, I _had_ just found out you kissed my wife.”

 

“Well, _she_ kissed _me_. Did you ever manage to _lock that down_?”

 

“We’re still happily married, yes, if that’s what you mean,” Pastor Veal answers uneasily.

 

“Good for you, buddy. Good for you.” Michael pats him on the back while trying to wink.

 

Pastor Veal just stares at him, mouth forcing a smile while his eyes cry out for help. He’s more than ready for this day to be over. He reminds himself, for the umpteenth time, of the check currently sitting in his office written to him by a Mrs. Lucille Bluth, widow of the deceased. It’s a sizable enough donation to buy five new bibles for every homeless person in Orange County. _Remember_ , he tells himself, _you’re doing this to help the homeless_.

 

“Hey, remember when our kids used to date?” Michael asks, leaning against the wall. He’s only just now remembering it himself, and he finds the concept hilarious.

 

“I do,” Pastor Veal replies.

 

“And then didn’t – didn’t your daughter break up with George Michael and try to marry my brother?”

 

“Yes. And then your brother left Ann at the altar.”

 

Michael looks confused now. “Who’s Ann?”

 

“My – my daughter,” Pastor Veal answers, dumbfounded. He’s used to this, of course, but this time Michael is the one who brought her up in the first place. At that moment, Ann happens to walk past, and Pastor Veal gestures towards her. “She’s right here.”

 

“Hello, Mr. Bluth,” Ann says.

 

“Her?” says Michael. Ann rolls her eyes and keeps walking.

 

“Right,” Pastor Veal says, sighing. “Well, Michael, it’s been a pleasure chatting with you. Sorry for your loss.”

 

“What lo-” Michael starts to say, then remembers that, oh yeah, his father died. Pastor Veal is already down the hall and out of sight. Michael scratches his head absentmindedly, then decides to have another drink. It’s not until he’s halfway through the drink he decides to have after _that_ that he remembers he’s supposed to be looking for his mother. He quickly gulps down the remainder, then makes his way back to the chapel, where, fortunately, he finds his mother seated in the pew. He also notices that Gob and Tony are gone again, and he tries not to think about where they might be and what they might be doing.

 

“Psst. Hey, Mom,” he whispers.

 

She turns to observe him, the disappointment evident in her face. “Oh, _Michael_ , you’re _shitfaced_.”

 

“No, I’m _not_ , Mom, I swear. Yeah, I had a few drinks, but…” he trails off, realizing she might be right.

 

“I don’t want to hear it. Just try and sober up, would you? The eulogy’s in just over a half-hour.”

 

Michael looks up at the slideshow and sees himself as a child, working in the banana stand, his father smiling in the foreground. “Yeah, okay. Whatever.”

 

He decides she can just find out about Annyong herself if that’s how she’s going to treat him. He stands back up and walks to the reception area, hoping to spot George Michael so he’ll have someone to complain to. Instead, however, he notices Gob and Tony – those matching glittery suits really stand out in a crowd – and decides now is probably a good time for a bathroom break.

 

In fact, Gob is currently talking to his son, who, admittedly(although _Gob_ would never admit it), he has once again failed to recognize. This time, though, Steve greets him with a, “Hey, dad!” right at the beginning, so he’s able to figure it out pretty quickly.

 

“Hey, Steve!” he says back, hoping this is actually Steve and not some other illegitimate son he doesn’t know about. Steve(or whoever this guy is) is grinning, though, so he thinks that must be a good sign.

 

“Steve Holt!” Steve yells, pumping his fists in the air. He offers a hand to Tony. “Nice to meet you.”

 

“Tony Wonder,” he replies, accepting the handshake.

 

“No, I know who you are. I’m a huge fan, by the way.”

 

“Yeah, so’s your dad,” Tony says back, winking. Gob elbows him, slightly embarrassed.

 

“Cool!” Steve pauses for a moment, examining their matching tuxedos and intertwined fingers. “So how do you and my dad know each other?”

 

“Well, we – uh-” Gob stutters, suddenly overcome with anxiety. He looks down at Tony, eyes pleading for help.

 

“We met at a magic show,” Tony says.

 

Gob nods. “And then fell in love,” he blurts out before he can stop himself, his face immediately turning pink as he realizes what he’s just said. Tony looks up at him, eyebrows raised. He’s a little impressed to hear Gob finally say it out loud in front of other people.

 

“Yeah,” he tells Steve, squeezing Gob’s hand. “What he said.”

 

Steve’s face goes blank for a second – a very brief second, although it feels like an eternity to Gob, who’s terrified he’s just made a huge mistake – while he processes this information, then lights up.

 

“So you’re telling me… what you’re saying is… you guys are a _couple_?”

 

“Yeah,” they say at the same time.

 

“ _Awesome_!” Steve shouts, throwing his head back and his fists up. “ _Two dads_!”

 

“ _That’s right, son_!” Gob yells back, pulling him into an extremely tight hug. He’s sobbing a little, but he can’t help it. He’s completely overwhelmed with emotion right now. He hadn’t expected Steve to be so accepting, even though he probably should have, and now he feels even worse about the last time they spoke that he can’t even remember. He starts choking out apologies for that, for all the times he intentionally avoided him, for all the times he _un_ intentionally avoided him, for all the times he wasn’t there(which was pretty much _every_ time, let’s be honest) – and he’s a complete mess by the time he lets go.

 

“Dad, it’s okay,” Steve says through happy laughter. “I’m not mad at you.”

 

“Y-you’re not?” he stammers, wiping his eyes. Tony is standing behind him now, gently rubbing his shoulders. He pulls a never-ending handkerchief from his sleeve and offers it to Gob.

 

“No, of course not. I mean, I have been, in the past, but I forgive you. Thanks for the apology. It means a lot.”

 

Gob hugs him again, very briefly this time but just as tight. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything just yet, because he’s only _just_ managed to stop crying and he’s afraid the waterworks will start up again if he opens his mouth. Steve’s fine with that, because he’s not done talking yet himself.

 

“I’m actually in a pretty great relationship myself right now,” Steve continues as Gob accepts the handkerchief. “I mean, this girl is _amazing_. She’s funny, and she’s smart, and she’s really good at math. She’s got a kid, too, and he’s really cool. His dad’s not really in the picture at all, so I have a lot of fun with him, you know, being the father he never had.”

 

“I’d love to meet her sometime,” Gob says, dabbing at his tear-stained face with Tony’s handkerchief. He’s mostly managed to regain his composure by now, and he’s already pretending his little mini breakdown never happened. Tony’s still massaging his shoulders, amused by how quickly Gob’s able to pull himself together. He pats Gob lightly on the back before grabbing his hand again.

 

“You know, she’s actually here with me right now,” Steve says. “Just a second. I’ll call her over.” He turns his head in her direction. “Hey baby, can you come over here for a sec? I want you to meet somebody,”

 

“Yeah?” Steve’s girlfriend asks, walking up to the trio. There’s a smile on her face, but it freezes and then fades when she looks up to see the ‘somebody’ in question. Steve doesn’t notice, too excited to introduce everyone.

 

“Dad, this is my girlfriend, Ann Veal. Ann, this is my dad, Gob, and his boyfriend, Tony Wonder.”

 

“Nice to see you two again,” Ann says through gritted teeth.

 

“Oh, you guys know each other?” Steve asks, blissfully oblivious.

 

“Yeah, we’ve met before,” Ann says. She’s smirking knowingly now at Gob and Tony, who, in addition to the suits, are now wearing matching expressions of shock. The never-ending handkerchief has fallen forgotten to the floor. Gob’s mouth is hanging half-open, words forming on his tongue and then disappearing, while the hand that isn’t holding Tony’s gestures aimlessly back and forth between Ann and Steve. Tony awkwardly glances around the room, his jaw still dropped, and happens to make eye contact with Sally Sitwell, who mouths the words “have fun with that” before turning away.

 

“What was that about?” Lindsay asks.

 

“Just your idiot brother and my idiot ex. I think Gob just found out his son is dating the girl he almost married, who’s also the girl Tony’s dumb ass knocked up right after the almost-wedding. So now I guess Gob’s son is Tony’s son’s stepfather, and Tony’s basically the grandfather of his own kid. So, you know, pretty standard Bluth family stuff.” Sally shrugs and takes a sip of her drink. She finds the whole thing incredibly amusing.

 

“Ah,” Lindsay replies. She’s not offended by the dig at her family – after all, Sally’s not wrong. And they’re… _friends_ now, which had taken a little getting used to. It feels a little like they’re back in high school all over again, talking about who’s dating who in the cafeteria over lunch. Except, of course, this time, they’re not sworn enemies, and Michael’s not right there making everything even more awkward. Lindsay finds herself wishing it could’ve been this way the first time around.

 

She sips her own drink. “So, do you think they’ll get married? Gob and Tony, I mean.”

 

“Oh, absolutely,” Sally answers. “Without a doubt. If I’m wrong, I’ll eat my hair.”

 

She and Lindsay both laugh, the latter remembering how shocked she’d been when she first found out Sally’s hair was a wig. It just looks so _natural_. Even now, she can’t tell.

 

Sally continues, “I mean, you should see the look on Tony’s stupid face when he talks about Gob. It’s like the guy hung the stars in the sky or some shit. Like, oh, _big deal_ , he saved your life and career. Your _magician_ career, Tony. Why are you even proud of that? Plus, I mean, having known Gob for most of my life… he’s like the poster child for the term ‘human disaster’. No offense.”

 

“Oh, trust me, none taken,” Lindsay replies. “Remember when he nearly set the school on fire?”

 

“Which time?” Sally asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “And how he slept with half the cheer squad… everybody said he just cried after. Those poor girls.”

 

Lindsay nods in agreement. “He almost chopped off Buster’s hand once with one of his ‘illusions’. Ironic, considering… well, you know. But it was pretty funny. Lucille went totally apeshit on him.”

 

Sally takes another sip of her drink. “Tony almost proposed to me once. Did I ever tell you about that?”

 

Lindsay thinks for a second. “No, I don’t think you did.”

 

“Oh my god, it was a _mess_. He chickened out halfway through. He got down on one knee, panicked, and then pulled out a glitter bomb. I was _so mad_ at him. I had to make my next public appearance looking like I got puked on by a Pride parade.” She pauses for a moment. “And you know the kicker? This was _after we broke up_. Like, _months_ after. It was the day you guys did that stupid wall disaster thing and they found Lucille Austero’s body.”

 

“Wow,” Lindsay says, taking a moment to digest this information. “I think he and Gob might be soulmates.”

 

“Right? I knew this was gonna happen from the second he told me about his idiotic plan to make Gob fall in love with him and then break his heart. I mean, who _does_ that?”

 

“Gob did,” Lindsay says.

 

“ _Exactly_.”

 

Lindsay smiles dreamily as she sips from her drink. She’s always been a bit of a hopeless romantic, even if the romance in question is her clueless magician brother and his equally clueless magician boyfriend. Sally smiles back, sipping her own drink, at least until a nearby voice forces them to break eye contact.

 

“Ladies!” Tobias shouts, walking up. Neither one of them is particularly thrilled to see him, and they make no effort to hide it. Tobias, however, remains oblivious. “How would you like to be the first to know about some _exclusive_ new juicy gossip?”

 

Lindsay rolls her eyes. “What is it, Tobias?”

 

“Well,” he replies, leaning in closer, “you didn’t hear it from me, but it seems that our G-O-B is also a bit of a G-A-Y, if you know what I mean. _I_ just saw _him_ holding _hands_ with a _man_.”

 

“Why would you add ‘if you know what I mean’?” Sally asks, frustrated. “There’s only _one_ thing that could _possibly_ mean.”

 

“We know, Tobias,” Lindsay says. “We were literally just talking about that.”

 

“What? But how did you know?” Tobias exclaims in astonishment. Either he’s recently made major progress with his acting abilities or he’s genuinely surprised, and Lindsay highly doubts it’s the former. She rolls her eyes again.

 

“How did you _not_ know? You tried to show me his sex tape!”

 

“I thought that was just _acting_!” Tobias furrows his brow, deep in thought. “No _wonder_ it looked so real.”

 

“Don’t say that,” Sally says, facepalming. “If Tony hears you he’s gonna try to pop out of something. And _where_ are those drinks we asked you for? I swear, the service here is _terrible_.”

 

“Oh! Uh, right away, milady!” Tobias replies, scurrying away in the direction of the bar. He doesn’t seem to have noticed that both women are currently holding drinks.

 

Sally shakes her head as she and Lindsay walk away, neither wanting to be where Tobias can easily find them when(if) he returns. “How the _hell_ do you manage to stay married to that guy?”

 

“It’s pretty easy, actually. All I have to do is not file for divorce,” Lindsay replies casually.

 

“No, _seriously_.”

 

Lindsay shrugs. “Well, I mean, he’s family. He’s Maeby’s father. And yeah, there’s no _intimacy_ , but… we’re friends, I guess. We’re used to each other.”

 

“That’s pretty bleak, Lindsay,” Sally says. Just a few months earlier, she would’ve been thrilled to hear it. Now, though, she actually feels _bad_ for Lindsay. They’re standing just outside the church now, backs against the wall, listening to the sounds of birds chirping and traffic.

 

Lindsay shrugs again as she pulls out a cigarette, setting her drink down on the ground. Sally does the same. “Well, that’s been my life for, like, 25 years now. I’m used to it. I mean, what else is there at this point?” She turns to look Sally in the eye.

 

“Well…” Sally starts to say, but trails off, leaving the rest of her thought just hanging in the air. Lindsay’s attention is focused on lighting her cigarette. She inhales, then exhales slowly.

 

“I’d offer you one, but this is my last,” she says apologetically. She’s been saving it, in fact. Lindsay rarely smokes anymore, but she’s held onto it just in case. Right now seems like an appropriate occasion, what with her father dying and everything. Of course, that happened almost two weeks ago, and up until now she’s been getting by just fine. Maybe the funeral is making everything more real for her, or maybe it’s nothing to do with that at all. She’s been feeling this strange feeling lately, the type of feeling she used to get when she’d first meet a new guy – Marky Bark, Herbert Love, Tobias all those years ago – of course, that feeling was always fleeting, fading away as soon as the newness wore off. This time it’s just kept getting stronger and stronger – and the only guy she’s been spending time with is Tobias, whom she has recurring dreams of abandoning in the middle of nowhere and starting a new life without – so it can’t be because of him. That’s the real reason she’s reaching for the cigarette now, but she’s not quite ready to admit it to herself.

 

Sally opens her mouth to say she’s fine without one, but Lindsay has another idea before she gets the chance. “Or… we could share it.”

 

“Yes, perfect. Let’s do that,” Sally replies quickly. Lindsay hands her the cigarette, and she raises it to her lips. After inhaling deeply, she returns it to Lindsay.

 

“I think I might’ve interrupted you a second ago,” Lindsay says, accepting the cig. “What were you about to say?”

 

Sally exhales. “When?”

 

“Just now, when I said, ‘What else is there?’, and you said, ‘Well...’ like you had something you were gonna say, but you never finished the sentence.”

 

“Well…” Sally says again. Lindsay’s looking at her inquisitively, her head tilted. Sally reaches up and strokes her cheek. “There’s this.”

 

She leans forward then, and her lips are on Lindsay’s. The kiss is brief, but soft and tender. Sally pulls away and averts her eyes, hesitant to gauge Lindsay’s reaction.

 

“Well,” Lindsay says a moment later, once she regains the ability to speak, “there certainly is _that_.”

 

Sally starts to apologize, to say she probably shouldn’t have done that and she doesn’t want to force anything, but suddenly Lindsay’s mouth is back on her mouth and they’re kissing again, with more heat this time, more passion. Sally’s right hand is gently caressing the back of Lindsay’s neck, and Lindsay’s left hand comes to rest just under Sally’s shoulder blades. For a moment they’ve both forgotten where they are, but the sound of a throat being cleared pulls them back to reality.

 

“Hey, Mom,” Maeby says casually. Both her mother and the woman whose tongue was just inside her mother’s mouth spin around, each looking like a deer caught in headlights.

 

“H-hey, Maeby,” Lindsay stammers. “W-we were just – I was just-”

 

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’m not gonna tell anybody. The eulogy’s about to start, though, so Gangie sent me to find you.”

 

“Oh, okay,” Lindsay says. “Thanks, sweetie.”

 

“Should be pretty interesting, too. Michael’s completely _wasted_. Anyway, see you in there.”

 

Maeby turns around and heads back into the building. Sally and Lindsay remain outside for another minute, both aware that they should probably discuss what just happened, neither saying anything in fear of ruining the moment. Fortunately, there isn’t time to, thanks to the impending eulogy. Lindsay is the first to speak, dropping the now-forgotten cigarette and extinguishing it as she does so.

 

“Well, that could’ve gone a lot worse.”

 

“Yep,” Sally agrees as she opens the door. “It could’ve been _Tobias_ who caught us.”

 

Lindsay rolls her eyes. “Ugh, can you _imagine_?”

 


	4. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've decided to go ahead and post the rest of this today instead of waiting until the end of the week. enjoy!

Michael straightens his tie and adjusts his hair, trying to pass for sober. He decides to splash some water on his face to clear his head. Apparently, though, his coordination’s not quite what it should be, because his shirt, his tie, and his suit jacket end up soaking wet in the process.

 

“Damn it,” he whispers. “This thing is _expensive_.”

 

“ _Michael_!” his mother yells from behind him. He whirls around, startled, slinging water droplets in every direction.

 

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Lucille continues, “I thought _surely_ Maeby was mistaken when she told me you were in here.”

 

“Mom, why are _you_ in here?” Michael asks, surprised. “This is the men’s room.”

 

“Oh _no_ , Michael. No, it isn’t.”

 

“Yes it-” he turns back to the mirror and observes his surroundings. The lack of urinals is suddenly very apparent. “Well, that would explain all those screaming women,” he says, mostly to himself.

 

“Good _lord_ ,” Lucille says, facepalming.

 

“Okay, listen, Mom. I know this looks pretty bad, but I swear, I’m still in good enough shape to deliver the eulogy.” He’s hoping to convince himself moreso than her, and he hopes that isn’t obvious.

 

“You’d better be,” she replies. “I won’t have you chickening out and making this family into even more of a joke than we already are.”

 

Michael glares at her.

 

“Or _are_ you a chicken, Michael? A-coodle-doodle-doo! _A-coodle-doodle-doo_!” She’s flapping her arms now. Michael’s very, very glad there’s no one around to see it.

 

“No, Mom. I’m not.” He briefly considers showing her what an _actual_ chicken looks like, but then he remembers how the last time he tried to do that he fell down a flight of stairs. Ultimately, he decides against it, even though he doesn’t see any stairs nearby and he could _totally_ get away with it if he really wanted to.

 

“I expect to see you at the pulpit in five minutes,” Lucille says curtly, then turns and exits the room.

 

Michael nods, even though she’s already gone, then checks his reflection one last time. After coming to the conclusion that he’s as composed as he’ll ever be, he follows her.

 

-

 

When he gets back to the chapel(he may or may not have stopped by the bar for another drink first), everyone’s waiting for him. “Ah, there he is, folks,” says Pastor Veal. “Michael Bluth, with the eulogy.” He gives Michael a polite nod as he walks past, waiting until after he’s back in his seat to whisper a silent prayer for help.

 

“There’s a eulogy?” Tobias whispers to Lindsay. “Why did no one tell me?”

 

“It’s a _funeral_ , Tobias,” she whispers back. “Of _course_ there is.”

 

“Good evening,” Michael says, taking the stand. “Or is it – I guess afternoon, maybe, would be more accurate. Then again, it’s almost 5:00, and that’s evening, so good… whatever this is.”

 

Someone in the audience coughs. Other than that, there’s no reaction.

 

“Difficult crowd, huh? Who died?”

 

His mother is glaring at him. “Oh, right,” he adds quickly, suddenly remembering where he is and what he’s doing. He looks down to find a thick stack of paper, which he assumes must be the eulogy his mother has pre-written for him. He wonders why she didn’t have him at least rehearse it beforehand. Does she _want_ this to go wrong?

 

Either way, though, it looks like it’s going to, because Michael has bigger problems. This font is _tiny_ , and his vision refuses to focus long enough to make out the letters. He’s not entirely sure it’s even written in English. It looks more like Greek, or maybe Arabic. Of course, were he not currently experiencing the after-effects of an almost absurd amount of liquor, he’d have no issues comprehending it. He spends another second squinting down at the pages, then decides he’ll just wing it. He tosses the script off to the side.

 

“My father was-” he starts, observing the family’s reactions. Lucille is staring at him curiously, as are George Michael, Buster, Tobias, and Steve Holt. Maeby has her phone out, recording him. Lindsay isn’t paying attention, instead looking back toward someone in another pew. Gob and Tony are so close together they’re practically sitting in each other’s laps, but both men have their eyes fixed on Michael. “My father was a bastard.”

 

Lucille rolls her eyes, and facepalms, but seems to have accepted that this is the way things are going to be. Emboldened, Michael continues, paying no mind to the gasps of disapproval that come from the more religious audience members. “Yeah. My father was an asshole. He was a piece of shit. And I’m sure you all knew that already. Hell, I recognize half of you people from his days spent in courtrooms.”

 

Barry Zuckerkorn wolf-whistles loudly from the back of the church. Several people turn to look at him, and he immediately drops down and rolls out of his seat. Michael ignores him. “I mean, the guy was just absolute scum of the earth. You name it, he did it. Embezzlement, bribery, conspiracy, fraud, adultery, _treason_ – at any given time he was committing one of the seven deadly sins. Let’s go down the list.”

 

Michael pauses for a moment, because he can’t remember what the seven deadly sins actually are. “He faked a heart attack to escape from jail, and then he faked his death and fled the country. Well, not in that exact order, but you get the picture. He did business with _Saddam Hussein_. That’s – _um_ – that’s gotta be one of them at least. Well, let’s see. I know _lust_ is one. He cheated on my mother nearly every single day, with nearly every single woman he met. You know, though, now that I think about it, he kind of got what he deserved for that. She actually – she switched his Viagra with estrogen. _Destroyed_ his endocrine system.”

 

He laughs to himself a little, even as several mourners turn to stare at Lucille Bluth in horror. “Okay, what else? _Greed_. Where do I even _begin_ there? Everything George Bluth ever did in his life was for his own gain. He used to make me and my older brother fight each other and record it just so he could make money off us. He stole the banana stand idea from some poor Korean guy and had the man sent back to _wherever the hell_ he came from. Of course, he kind of got bit in the ass for that too, huh?”

 

Michael wiggles his eyebrows at Annyong. Lucille turns from Michael to Annyong and then back again, realization dawning on her face. “ _Gluttony_ ,” Michael continues, not quite cognizant enough to keep listing individual examples, “um, he did that one every day too. And _wrath_ , and _sloth_. What was the other – oh yeah, _jealousy_. Lot of that going on there as well. Okay, that’s six, I think. What’s that last one? Oh, _fuck_ , it’s right on the tip of my tongue… I can almost _feel_ it...”

 

Michael stares up at the ceiling, thoughts of sins and crimes ricocheting around inside his alcohol-impaired brain. He decides the seventh deadly sin must be murder. What _else_ could it be? “And, of course, let’s not forget _murder_. He used to send baskets of poison muffins out to teachers he disagreed with. And that’s just what I know about. There could be any number of secrets that went with him to his watery grave.”

 

“And like father like son, am I right?” he adds, gesturing at Buster, who gasps. “Ironic, considering Buster’s probably my Uncle Oscar’s kid. Yeah, that’s right, Mother, I’m going there. The cheating went both ways back in the day. And now Byron ‘Buster’ Bluth is a serial killer who pushes old ladies down stairs while hyped up on juice. Gotta love how that turned out.”

 

Buster shrinks down in his seat, uncomfortable with the attention. “Then again,” Michael continues, “it’s not like the rest of us turned out any better. Lindsay’s rotting away in a loveless marriage. She’s spent her whole adult life ignoring her daughter, and her husband’s got a bastard son who was probably conceived while they were together. Which blows my mind, by the way, because I have _never_ seen Tobias Funke show interest in a woman. I mean, Maeby was a product of artificial insemination, which – oh, hang on, I get it now. Tobias must’ve donated to a sperm bank. That makes sense. Case closed, folks!”

 

Michael claps his hands together. Tobias is nodding. Murphybrown is smiling and waving at the attention he’s receiving. Lindsay’s got an expression on her face that Michael can’t really read. “And Gob,” Michael says, pointing at his older brother. “Who could forget about good old George Oscar Bluth II? Both my father’s namesake and his greatest disappointment. This guy’s spent his whole life trying to get Dad to respect him. Never would’ve worked, and he’s too stupid to notice.”

 

Gob slouches down even further in his seat, eyes locked on something far away.

 

“Hey, fuck you,” Tony Wonder says, more than loud enough for Michael to hear.

 

“Shut up, Tony Wonder!” Michael shouts back, belligerent. “If I hadn’t walked in on you balls deep inside my brother on the bathroom counter earlier I wouldn’t have to be so drunk right now, so _shut up_! And weren’t you supposed to only have one ball? I _swear_ I saw two!”

 

“He has an implant, _Michael_ ,” Gob yells, like that was supposed to be obvious. Tony nods, rolling his eyes dramatically.

 

Several of the mourners cry out in shock. There’s also some nervous laughter in the mix, and somebody in the back is slow clapping. Lucille is rolling her eyes and reaching for a cigarette, and George Michael is cringing. Pastor Veal’s jaw has dropped open, and he seems to be having an internal debate over whether or not to just call off the entire funeral right now. Tony just shrugs and whispers something to Gob. Both of them look pretty pleased with themselves.

 

“Okay,” Michael continues, ignoring all of it, “anyway, as I was saying – then there’s me. I mean, look at me. I’m _objectively_ the most successful out of all of us, and my life is a mess. I’ve spent the past few months living in a camper with my son. We were in Phoenix for most of that time, and you know why we left? Well, I’ll tell you why. It wasn’t ‘cause my father died. It’s ‘cause I walked into a Lady Foot Locker yesterday. They had some banner covering up the ‘lady’ part of the sign, so I thought it was just a normal Foot Locker. And then I asked an employee why all they had was women’s shoes, and he told me to read the sign. I told him I _had_ read the sign, and, well, long story short, I got in this huge argument with the manager and they banned me for life. And I turned to my son, and I said, ‘That’s it. We’re going to Florida,’ and we just packed up and left. Because that’s _my_ problem. I’m too confident, and I can never admit when I’m wrong.”

 

Michael pauses briefly to catch his breath. “And then, you know, about an hour after that, I got a phone call from my mother, and she told me Dad was dead. So now I’m here. I didn’t know there was a funeral until this morning, and I didn’t know _I_ was supposed to do the eulogy until I got here. That was somewhat of a shock for me.”

 

He thinks for a second, then continues. “Well, I mean, no it wasn’t, really. That’s pretty much how we do things in the Bluth family. I think our family motto might be, ‘Don’t tell Michael.’ The real shocker is that my father’s finally dead. Of course, with no body, it’s kind of hard to say for sure. This is actually the second funeral we’ve had for him, by the way. The first was about ten or eleven years ago, when he faked his death that one time. Gob volunteered to be the body that time and wound up buried alive. I gotta say, if I’d known back then what I’d see him doing here in a church bathroom today, I never would’ve dug him up.”

 

Michael laughs, hoping to motivate the crowd of mourners to join in. Someone coughs again, and someone else yawns, but other than that there’s only silence. “Well, anyway, I’m not gonna name any names, but certain _failed magicians_ in the family seem to think Dad’s faking it this time too. And I hope to god he isn’t, for all of our sake. That’d be insurance fraud, and the _last_ thing we need right now is more trouble with the law. And, I mean, _come on_ , $200 million? The man wasn’t worth 200 cents. I didn’t even think insurance policies would go that high, but apparently there’s some billionaire up in Silicon Valley who’s got one for $201 million. My son looked that up on his phone, ‘cause he couldn’t believe it either. Guess that’s _another_ idea my dad stole.”

 

He winks(with both eyes) at Annyong. Annyong doesn’t wink back. “But enough about that asshole. He’s dead; we’re alive. Who cares about him? Am I right?” He turns to look at Pastor Veal, who has his head in his hands. Michael clears his throat loudly, and Pastor Veal looks up. “Well? _Am I right_?”

 

“Well, Michael,” Pastor Veal replies, sighing deeply, “I’m not saying you’re _wrong_ , necessarily, but you _are_ currently delivering the eulogy at his funeral, so…”

 

“So what you’re saying is, I _am_ right,” Michael says. Pastor Veal shakes his head and throws his hands in the air, exasperated. “I gotcha, buddy,” Michael continues, trying and failing to wink. He leans over, attempting to strike a casual pose, but he leans just a _little_ too far, and suddenly he loses his balance. He stumbles, hands grabbing nothing but air as the world spins around him, and the next thing he knows he’s flat on the ground.

 

“Okay!” he shouts, maneuvering himself into a seated position. He notices that the letters H-E-R are hanging from the ceiling, followed by what appears to be a question mark. _Shouldn’t it say H-I-M?_ he thinks to himself, momentarily distracted. _This is my_ _dad’s_ _funeral,_ _not my mom’s_. “I’m okay!” He waves away Pastor Veal and Father Marsala, who have both rushed over to assist him. “I’m fine! Don’t worry about me! Just – just go back to your seats. Yeah. Go sit down.”

 

Against their better judgment, the two men do as he says, exchanging nervous glances as they return to their chairs. There’s hushed whispering amongst the mourners as Michael pulls himself back up to his feet, and the air is noticeably tense – although not to Michael, who casually brushes himself off and acts like nothing just happened.

 

“Well, anyway,” he says, pulling out a bottle of communion wine that he’d caught sight of during his brief stint on the floor, “let’s drink to my father’s memory. It’s what he would’ve wanted.” He opens the bottle, then raises it up in the air. “To _lust_ -” he takes a swig, then raises the bottle again “-to _greed_ -” he takes another long swig, then raises it once more. “To _gluttony_ – to _wrath_ – to _sloth_ – to _jealousy_ -” he continues, repeating the process in between each sin. Most of the mourners are gazing on in horror. The bottle is nearly empty now, and Michael looks a little ill.

 

“-and to _murder_ ,” he finishes, tilting it back one last time. He gags as he swallows the remainder of the wine, but forces it down anyway, gripping the edge of the podium to steady himself. “Okay,” he says, visibly nauseous, “I probably should not have done that. Hang on.”

 

“Is he gonna throw up?” Buster asks in a high-pitched whine. Warden Gentles nudges him to shut him up. Buster retaliates by elbowing him back, hard enough to knock him out of the pew. The warden falls over, and, thanks to the handcuffs, drags Buster down with him. Both men groan in pain.

 

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Lucille says, facepalming again. Annyong laughs, and she spins around to face him.

 

“Shut up, Annyong!” Buster yells from the floor.

 

“Annyong,” he says back.

 

“Annyong?” asks Gob, who’s forgotten Annyong even existed.

 

“Annyong,” Annyong repeats.

 

“Annyong!” says Tobias.

 

“Annyong.”

 

“ _Annyong_?” Lindsay asks, having forgotten about him as well.

 

“Annyong.”

 

“ _Annyong_!” Steve Holt shouts, fistpumping. He has no idea what’s going on, but he wants to be a part of it.

 

“Annyong.”

 

“Annyong!” Murphybrown Funke yells, imitating Steve. He, too, wants to feel included. Tobias shakes his head.

 

“Annyong.”

 

“Annyong?” asks DeBrie, confused and feeling more out of place than ever.

 

“Annyong.”

 

“Who the hell is this guy?” Tony Wonder asks. Gob opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out.

 

“Hel-loh,” says Annyong, offering his hand to Tony, who hesitantly shakes it.

 

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Lucille whisper-shouts, throwing her hands in the air. “What are you after, you little shit? Is it the insurance money?”

 

“I don’t care about insurance money,” Annyong replies. “I’m just happy to see George Bluth finally dead.”

 

“Well, that’s just-” Lucille never gets the chance to finish her thought, because Michael has chosen that moment to vomit all over the podium.

 

The room erupts into chaos. Several people are screaming and running for the exits. Pastor Veal is loudly reciting the Lord’s prayer and Father Marsala is attempting to chase Michael away from the pulpit. Barry Zuckerkorn shoves his way through the crowd with a briefcase full of stolen food, spilling donuts and coffin cookies everywhere. At least one child is crying. Gob, in his rush to escape with Tony, accidentally detonates a smoke bomb he’d been planning to use for a surprise magic show. Nearby, a fight breaks out.

 

“FIRE!” someone screams, noticing the smoke. More screams of terror follow, and one person throws a bible out the window, breaking the glass. Several others dial 911. Buster and Warden Gentles are both crawling on their knees – or, rather, attempting to, seeing as they can’t seem to decide on a direction to head in. Lucille is standing next to them, calmly shaking her head as she inhales from a cigarette. Michael vomits again, this time on Father Marsala, who lets out a high-pitched screech.

 

“WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!” shouts Kitty Sanchez, ripping off her clothes. She grabs the nearest person – who happens to be Gene Parmesan – and begins furiously making out with him, knocking his toupee and fake mustache to the ground.

 

“ _Please_ tell me you’re getting all this,” Joni Beard yells to her camera crew as she dodges a flying bible. It hits John Beard in the face, and he goes down cursing.

 

“Oh, right, the news is here,” Maeby mutters to herself. “Why’d I even bother filming?”

 

-

 

“Leave it to the Bluths to take the ‘fun’ out of ‘funeral’,” Joni says, flashing a toothy smile at the camera. Next to her, John groans, clutching an ice pack to the welt on his forehead. A banner reading “Disgraced Real Estate Mogul’s Funeral Falls Apart Faster Than His Shoddy Construction” scrolls across the bottom of the screen. “I highly doubt anybody’s a _mourning_ person after this debacle,” Joni continues.

 

Lucille aims the remote at the TV and hits the power button, cutting off the montage of funeral footage. “Well, I hope you’re all satisfied,” she says, gazing around the room at her family. They’re all in the living room of the beach cottage, minus Buster, who’s been escorted back to prison and is watching once again from the screen of an iPad duct-taped to a broomstick duct-taped to a Roomba, and Maeby, who’s outside facetiming with her girlfriend. Michael is stretched out on one couch, and Lindsay and Tobias are seated on opposite ends of the other. George Michael is sitting cross-legged in the chair, and Gob and Tony – whose presence at a family gathering no one has objected to, leading Michael to believe that this must be a regular occurrence – are at the barstools. “I know _I_ certainly am.”

 

“ _What_?” Michael asks, almost positive he’s misheard her. He’s so hung over he can barely move, and his head is killing him. He tries sitting up to get a better look at her and immediately regrets the decision.

 

“You… _enjoyed_ that, Gangie?” asks George Michael, also very confused. The funeral had ended with five cop cars and a firetruck, three broken windows, and half a dozen mourners in the hospital. The Bluths had been informed, in no uncertain terms, that they were never to set foot on church property again. Michael in particular had been threatened with charges of disorderly conduct, and Gob and Tony had been warned about public indecency(luckily for them, the only evidence was word of mouth from a drunken lunatic and a couple of used condoms in the men’s bathroom trashcan). It had been dark outside before everyone was allowed to leave, and the amount of time they’d spent being lectured in the back of a police van rivaled the amount of time they’d spent actually attending the funeral.

 

Lucille shrugs and begins to mix herself a drink. “It’s what he deserved.”

 

Michael agrees with that statement, but he doesn’t like the implications. He groans. “Mom, did you _plan_ this?”

 

“Not _all_ of it,” Lucille replies, placing the vodka back on its shelf. “I had no idea _Annyong_ would show up and make such a scene.”

 

“But the rest?” Lindsay asks, clearly in the same boat as Michael.

 

“Well, I _may_ have had a hand in some of it,” Lucille admits. “Why’d you think I let your daughter be in charge of putting this whole thing together?”

 

“ _Maeby_ planned the funeral?” Tobias asks incredulously. Lindsay facepalms at his ignorance. “Well, that _does_ explain why no one informed me of the eulogy. If it was _meant_ to be a disaster, I’m _certainly_ the wrong choice.”

 

“Gonna have to disagree with you on that one, Tobias,” Michael says. “Mother, _why_?”

 

“Oh, Michael, _please_. It had to be you. It had to _look_ like we were trying, for god’s sake. Of course, I know how _those two_ -” she motions to Gob and Tony, who don’t even look up from their makeout session “-can’t keep their hands to themselves _or_ their junk in their pants, so it was inevitable that you’d witness _something_ unsightly at some point or another and turn to alcohol to take your mind off the memory.”

 

“Thanks for that, Mom,” Michael says, pressing both hands to his temples.

 

“You’re _welcome_ ,” Lucille replies, fully aware of his sarcastic tone. Michael groans and rolls over, hiding his face in the couch cushion. “I really have to hand it to you, Michael,” she continues after sipping her drink. “You exceeded my expectations with that makeshift eulogy.”

 

“Why so much hand talk, Mother?” Buster whines.

 

“Just to torture you,” she answers curtly without turning around. In fact, it had been unintentional. Buster nods in a mixture of acceptance and defeat. Lucille downs the rest of her drink, then continues speaking. “Of course, things could have worked out even better, if _certain people_ hadn’t fallen through on their obligations.”

 

She turns to look at her oldest son. “I’m talking about _you_ , Gob,” she says loudly. Gob breaks away from Tony and both of them acknowledge her, albeit reluctantly. “I gave you _one_ simple task!” she continues, slamming her empty glass down.

 

“That was _your_ fault, Mom,” Gob says, placing his hands strategically in his lap. In the other barstool, Tony does the same thing. George Michael, having noticed this, looks extremely uncomfortable.

 

Lucille crosses her arms. “How, exactly?”

 

“You’re the one who made me throw up the key last night, so you’re the reason I didn’t have it today,” he answers.

 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Lucille replies, rolling her eyes and shaking her head, “I didn’t _make_ you throw up. It’s not _my_ fault you can’t hold your liquor. And I never told you to _swallow_ the damn thing. Why couldn’t you have just put it in your pocket?”

 

“I’m a _magician_ , Mom. That’s what I do.” He chooses not to point out that, as long as _certain topics_ aren’t being discussed, he can hold his liquor just fine, afraid his mother will repeat the previous night’s words that’d caused him to be sick in the first place. He’s managed to block the exact details of that mental image from his memory, and he has no interest in remembering them, now or ever.

 

“Well, _excuse me_ then. I’d forgotten how much _swallowing_ goes on in your _lifestyle_. Allow me to just rephrase the question in a more _magician-appropriate_ manner,” Lucille says sarcastically. “Why couldn’t you have just shoved the key up your ass and had your little boyfriend pull it out?”

 

“I _told_ you she’d suggest that, babe,” Tony says, nudging Gob, who looks a little embarrassed.

 

“We – we don’t do _that_ , Mom,” he says, unconvincingly, despite it being (mostly) the truth. They’ve never done _exactly_ that. Lindsay makes a face. “We _don’t_!” he insists. Tony smirks.

 

Lucille rolls her eyes again, ignoring him. “ _Honestly_ , Gob, is it so much to ask? _All_ you had to do was help your poor innocent baby brother escape from prison-”

 

“Mom, he’s _not_ innocent. He killed two people,” Michael says, face still buried in the couch cushion. His headache is too severe to even touch on most of what he’s hearing, but he feels obligated to at least point out that much.

 

“We were still doing that plan?” Buster interjects, rolling up to Lucille. Everyone looks at him. “Mother, I told you already. I like it here!”

 

“Yeah, Mom, he likes it,” Gob adds, gesturing with one hand to the iPad screen.

 

“They _respect_ me here, Mother,” Buster says. “They treat me like a human person. A human person who only has one hand and who kills other human people. Which is more than I can say for _some_ people, by the w-”

 

“Oh, whatever,” Lucille sighs, turning to mix another drink.

 

Michael rolls over again as Buster rolls away in annoyance. “On the bright side,” he says, “at least we’re all banned for life from that stupid church.”

 

“It was nice of them to not press charges,” George Michael adds. Lindsay nods in agreement.

 

“Oh, _please_. It would have been ‘nice’ if they didn’t charge _us_ for damages,” says Lucille. “ _We’re_ not the ones who lost our minds and started slinging bibles left and right.”

 

“I do wish they would have made an exception for myself,” Tobias says, accidentally falling off the couch, “considering the _many_ contributions I’ve made to the acting department at And As It Is Such programming on the Miracle Network. _However_ , I, much like Michael, am choosing to look on the bright side of this unfortunate situation. This development makes me a Bluth, _fully blown_!”

 

“It _absolutely_ does not,” Lucille responds without looking up. Michael has to agree. He’s fairly certain that logic wouldn’t hold up even if he _wasn’t_ currently experiencing one of the worst hangovers of his life.

 

“You know what I’m just now realizing, Mother Bluth?” asks Tobias, pulling himself up from the floor. No one encourages him to continue, but he does so regardless. “Why you asked me the other week, ‘if you want to be a Bluth so badly, why don’t you just marry Gob?’ It’s not because you _think_ I’m gay, it’s because you _know_ he’s gay.”

 

“I think it’s both, Tobias,” Michael says from the couch.

 

“And I think you’re gonna have to wait in line,” says George Michael, motioning toward the corner of the room, where his uncle is once again french-kissing Tony Wonder. Both men are clearly _very_ into it, and George Michael quickly looks away.

 

“Irregardless,” Tobias says, after staring at the display for just a second too long, “my wife and I are happily married. Right, Lindsay?”

 

Lindsay doesn’t answer. At that moment, her phone starts ringing. She looks at Tobias, then at it, as though caught up in an internal debate.

 

“Lindsay?” he asks again, cautiously optimistic.

 

“I need to take this,” she says bluntly. She gets up and walks into the other room before answering the call, her face instantly lighting up. “Hey, Sally!”

 

Michael, George Michael, and Lucille look at Tobias, who frowns.

 

“Well, that’s not exactly encouraging,” he says, sitting back down.

 

“Understatement of the year,” Lucille mutters into her glass.

 

“How _embarrassing_ ,” says Buster, spinning the Roomba in a circle.

 

“And that’s coming from _him_ , Tobias,” Lucille adds, taking Lindsay’s place on the couch. Buster beams, ignoring the insult. He’s just excited to hear his mother agree with him.

 

“Well, balls,” says Tobias. For a moment he looks upset, but he shrugs it off. He stands up and makes his way to the kitchen, where he gazes intently – a little creepily, almost – at the two magicians, who are still completely engrossed in each other’s tongues.

 

Just then, Maeby walks back inside, her facetime call having come to a close, and chooses to sit on the arm of George Michael’s chair. He barely notices, too fixated on Gob and Tony’s blatant PDA. “Are they… always like this?” he asks her, looking up. The two men are pressed up against each other, Gob in a barstool and Tony standing, and Gob’s hands are all over Tony’s lower back and shifting downward.

 

“Pretty much, yeah,” Maeby replies. “You learn to ignore it. At least until they get a room, anyway. Then it gets kind of hard to ignore.”

 

George Michael frowns and looks away again, not wanting to think about that. “And Gob thinks this is discrete?” he asks, as his uncle squeezes Tony Wonder’s ass.

 

Maeby shrugs. “Why are you surprised? The guy’s an idiot.”

 

“Yeah, I guess he kind of is,” George Michael agrees. “At least he’s happy.”

 

“Right?” Maeby responds. It’s weird for her, seeing her uncle happy, seeing her mother happy, seeing _herself_ happy. Weird, but not at all unpleasant. Well, perhaps just a _little_ unpleasant in the case of her uncle, who’s currently moaning into another man’s mouth. “I mean, unless that’s a banana in his pocket,” she adds jokingly, elbowing her cousin.

 

George Michael remembers something then, and he’s eager to bring it up, if only to take his mind off just how _happy_ his uncle and his uncle’s boyfriend seem to be at the moment. “Hey, what about Oscar? Did we even mention him at the funeral?”

 

“Nah. Apparently he had his own ‘special’ postmortem instructions laid out in his will. Gangie was _very_ insistent about that,” Maeby answers. “Of course, without the body, it’s gonna be pretty hard to smoke his ashes, so…” She trails off, letting George Michael put the pieces together on his own. Across the room, Lucille nods.

 

“Son,” Michael says suddenly, drawing George Michael’s attention away from his cousin. He’s still curled up on the couch in a fetal position, but his eyes are on George Michael. “What do you want to do after this? Like, if you could go anywhere, where would you choose?”

 

“Honestly, Dad?” George Michael responds after thinking for a moment. “I kind of like it here.”

 

“Let’s go on a road trip, just you and me,” Michael says, and for a second George Michael is sure his father has once again decided to disregard his wishes. But then Michael continues. “Anywhere we want, just for a few weeks, and then we come back. No more running. Let’s stay in the family this time.”

 

“Sounds good,” George Michael says, and this time he means it.

 

“Great!” Michael sits up, wincing a little. His head is still pounding, and he’s fairly certain he’ll never forgive himself for becoming such a public spectacle, let alone getting so completely wasted in the first place. He stretches, trying to lessen the pain, but it doesn’t do much. “Of course, we’ll need to fix up the camper first, but then we’ll be on the road. Wonder how long that’s gonna take.”

 

Hearing his cue, Tony automatically pulls away from Gob, who whines in protest. “Did somebody say _wonder_?”

 

“Nope,” Michael replies without even looking, even though he most definitely had. Tony shrugs and goes back to sucking face with Gob. Neither one of them takes notice of Tobias, whose own face is barely two feet away. Maeby considers making another banana joke, but her father’s rapt interest in the happy couple is weirding her out.

 

“Oh, Michael, didn’t I tell you?” Lucille asks, turning to look at Michael. “That’s done already. I called while we were at the funeral. It’s all been taken care of.”

 

“No, Mom, you didn’t tell me,” he replies, a little shocked. “That’s great. That’s… I don’t know what to say, Mother. Thank you.” He smiles, and she smiles back. For once, it seems genuine.

 

“You know, Michael, contrary to what you might think, I have nothing against my children being happy,” she says, and, for some reason – probably the hangover – he’s inclined to believe her.

 

It’s a little disconcerting, seeing Lucille Bluth look so human, but Michael’s surprised to find he actually doesn’t hate it. It occurs to him that, in this moment, the entire family seems to be in good spirits, which he can’t recall ever happening before. He can’t tell what Lindsay’s saying in the other room, but he can hear the excitement in her voice. George Michael and Maeby have resumed their conversation, and his mother is laughing at something Buster just said. Gob and Tony are still making out with each other, and Tobias is still watching what is admittedly a much more captivating performance than anything he’s ever put on. George Sr is gone, probably in several pieces inside of several sharks, and none of them will have to deal with him ever again. Michael rests his head back down on the pillow, closing his eyes and smiling at that realization, and for the first time in forever he feels _content_ – at least until he realizes his older brother has just led Tony Wonder into the bedroom Tracey died in.

 


	5. On the next Arrested Development...

The first rock wakes Michael up, but he chooses to ignore it. _That could’ve been anything_ , he tells himself. Maybe a branch fell off a tree, or a bird flew blindly into the windshield of the camper. Of course, it _is_ the middle of the night, which means the chances of a careless bird are significantly lower. Could it have been a bat? His next thoughts are of bears and mountain lions. They _are_ in a national park, after all. Michael feels his heart rate increase, but remains motionless under the covers. He tries to convince himself he imagined the sound, and, at first, it seems to be working. He almost feels like he could fall back asleep now.

 

The second rock hits the glass a little harder, hairline cracks appearing in several directions. Michael can’t see them through the closed bedroom door, but the sound is enough to give it away. This time, George Michael wakes up too. “Dad?” he whispers, wide-eyed. Michael presses a finger to his lips, signaling for his son to remain quiet, and George Michael nods in understanding. They’re both on high alert now, no longer able to deny that there’s something(or some _one_ ) prowling around in the dark outside the camper.

 

The third rock breaks the window, and Michael immediately sits up in bed. George Michael yelps a little, the sound muffled by the sheets. “Stay here,” Michael whispers. “I’m gonna go check it out.” George Michael nods, trembling in fear. Michael climbs out of bed, reaches for the first vaguely weapon-like object he can find – a plunger, as it turns out – and cautiously opens the door to the rest of the camper. He steps out, wielding the plunger like a baseball bat, and prepares to confront the intruder.

 

Intruder _s_? There’s _two_ of them. “What the-” Michael whispers. The first figure turns around.

 

“Oh, hey, Michael,” the all-too-familiar voice says nonchalantly. Michael fumbles with his phone in the darkness, adrenaline coursing through his veins. The second figure waves.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” Michael says out loud, as his phone flashlight illuminates the two identical faces, “you have _got_ to be fucking _kidding_ me.”


End file.
